


Changing Destiny

by Nadja_Lee



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Abused Faramir, Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherhood, Brotherly Bonding, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gen, Hurt Faramir, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Prophetic Visions, Protective Boromir, Protective Siblings, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 91,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22834402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadja_Lee/pseuds/Nadja_Lee
Summary: This A/U novel is based on the movieverse and assumes Aragorn and Boromir, is raised by Denethor, and must deal with Boromir's intense dislike. The older boys join together to shield Faramir from his father's wrath, and slowly a strong bond forms between the three young men. As evil gathers against Gondor, Aragorn flees to Rivendell, and under Elrond's tutelage, he learns how to be a king. Years later, he returns to Gondor, to find Boromir changed and hardened. Faramir is chosen for the Fellowship, and finds his destiny, while Boromir and Aragorn together face sacrifice, and rediscover what was nearly lost, their brotherhood.[This novel was printed as a zine in 2008. It appears online for the first time here. It was written in 2 versions: slash and gen/het. This is the gen/het version. You can read the slash version here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22815472]
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 792





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> According to Fanlore this is one of my best fan novels; take that as you wish ;)  
> Cover art and all internal artwork is by L.A. Adolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to L.A. Adolf. for the artwork.  
> Thanks to Bast for helping me improve this novel with her kind suggestions. Thanks to my editor, publisher, artists and Jenn Miller for kind encouragement from start to finish. You have made this story possible.  
> Warnings: Tons and tons of hurt/comfort. Takes creative freedoms with LOTR movie lore. Be in particular aware that Aragorn’s date of birth and childhood has been changed, and Faramir’s abilities to receive visions, their usefulness and connection/impact on and to Sauron have been enhanced. Also, this novel mentions sex, war, thoughts and attempts of self-mutilation, child abuse and some general violence.  
> Pre story author’s notes: Thoughts are in italics. Elfish language is between stars. Remember again that this is an AU on the movies; not the books so a lot of the book information will be changed or disregarded. If you cannot accept the fundamental changes this novel makes (for example that I place Aragorn’s day of birth as only a few years before Boromir) then you shouldn’t read the novel. This is an AU; you must be able to read it as such to enjoy it.

_Please read the chapter notes for detailed warnings_

#  **Prologue**

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, had always known his life would not be like any others. Living in Gondor close to the border to Rohan, near the river Entwash, Aragorn had led a sheltered life. As a young boy he hadn’t known why his parents had chosen such a remote location, but his parents had been loving to each other and to him so he had not questioned it.

He had had a simple but loving upbringing. His father had taught him about the game of the forest, of hunting and respect towards the very creatures he would be killing. His mother had taught him about poetry, art, songs, and love, holding her Elvish literary collection so dear Aragorn’s father would tease her and say she loved it more than she did him.

This life had been all Aragorn had ever known, but when he had turned 14, his father had taken him aside and had, in a serious tone of voice, told him of a legend of old. A sword broken, a crownless King…all would once again be healed when the world returned to how things had been destined to be. Aragorn had nodded seriously while his father had spoken, though he had wondered why this legend was told to him with such seriousness. His unasked question had been answered when his father had smiled and put a hand on his shoulder, telling him he was the crownless King, the man who would one day rule all of Gondor, which was currently lead by the Steward Denethor.

Aragorn had accepted his father’s words as fact and one of the reasons why his parents lived remotely in order that the once and future King would be protected. However, he had paid the news little mind; his simple life went on, and knew the legend might not be fulfilled in his lifetime but in his son’s or that of his son’s son.

It was not until tragedy stuck that the legend came to Aragorn’s mind once more. While he had been out hunting with his father, the small house his father had built for his wife and only child burned to the ground during a strange and sudden lightning storm. The fire took his beloved mother, Arathorn’s dearly treasured wife, with it as it burned to the ground.

Upon returning, Aragorn had been heartbroken and distressed, falling to his knees beside the burnt out remains of his childhood home, the tree still burning embers. Crying softly, not knowing what to do, Aragorn had turned to his father, but he had been like a man possessed, not seeing the plea for help and guidance in his son’s eyes.

“Stay here and guard your mother,” he had asked through tears before he had left, disappearing back into the forest.

Aragorn had taken the request to heart and had stayed close to the burnt out house but soon the house was only ash flying to the wind. It was autumn, and winter with its cold winds was starting to set in. As days passed, Aragorn stopped his longing looks towards the forest and made a small grave for his mother, burying some of the ashes there as no body remained. He built a small shelter close by the ashes of his home and still he waited. The weather grew colder, the nights longer yet still he stayed, hoping, praying, to see his father appear.

It was not until some riders from the Riddermark stumbled upon the frozen and weak boy that he left, even then they had to convince him to come with them. The time alone had left him confused and absorbed in his own sorrow, his pained thoughts his only company till now. Despite his joy at finally seeing people, at being taken care of, he had been hesitant about leaving behind the only home he had ever known . All he had left was his father and how would he find him if he left? One of the riders had reassured him that he would be well cared for, that he didn’t have to worry anymore, and had wrapped him in his warm cloth. After Aragorn had gathered his few belongings the rider had lifted him up on his horse and they had started to move out.

“Who are you, young man, and what are you doing so far out alone?” one of the riders had asked him as they had made ready to move out after having stopped for nightfall.

Aragorn had found comfort and safety with the riders and felt more at peace now that he knew someone was there to take care of him. He had eaten, warmed himself and had slept – his exhaustion, both mental and physical, over his ordeal meant he till then had barely spoken at all. His grief was still there, a constant ache, but it wasn’t overshadowing. He was able to gather his wits and thoughts around him once more. Aragorn had replied to the question by telling of his father, his noble and brave bearing told to the riders with such a look of admiration, trust, and loyalty only a son can hold. Of himself he spoke little but plainly, for he was yet young and had not much of a tale to tell. He avoided mentioning his mother; the pain was still too fresh.

The riders then told him that they had known his father for some time. He had joined them in battle against daring Orcs. Arathorn had explained to the riders that he was sure it was the evil forces of Mordor that had taken the life of his wife by conjuring up a magical and deadly thunderstorm and thus he now wished to battle Mordor’s forces any way he could. The riders had not believed him, but he had been a great warrior so they had let him fight with them. Arathorn hadn’t spoken much with the riders and had kept to himself. The riders had suspected his mind had suffered from the loss of his wife to the point where all rational thought was gone, but as long as he fought the enemy they kept a respectful distance from him.

Just as Aragorn’s eyes and heart had filled with hope and joy at hearing of his father, his hopes had been crushed when the riders told him that he had recently been slain. His last words had been the name of his wife and a plea for the riders to head west into Gondor, towards the place where his heart had been burnt. Here they had found Aragorn and they had followed Arathorn’s dying request and had brought Aragorn his father’s sword.

Aragorn had been unable to hold back tears at the news of his father’s demise. He had held the sword tight to his chest and felt like his life had shattered. He had no one else. He was all alone now. Despair and grief filled all his senses, his every thought. He had no doubt his father had been right about Mordor, and with tears running down his cheeks and pain in his heart, he had vowed to avenge his parents. Yet the flame of revenge was not enough for him to keep going, and he was lost. He didn’t know what to do or where to go.

The riders had asked if he had other family and Aragorn had forced himself to reply through the haze of pain that had enfolded his mind and heart once more. His parents had been all he had had; he had nowhere to go and nowhere to be. Not sure what to do with a frozen, weak, and devastated 14 year old the Riders had clothed him warmly and fed him, while debating what to do next. Aragorn was vaguely aware of the debate but still in shock and thus he felt distanced from everything – even himself. The rider who had first taken care of him suggested he and his wife could take him in, though like most, the last many years of growing unrest in the land had meant his family was left with few resources.

“He is a child of Gondor, let Gondor rule over his fate,” one rider had suggested and the others had agreed with his words. Surely the best thing for the young man would be to be raised among his own people. Aragorn had accepted the suggestion; his grief was still so strong that he did not care about his own fate.

So, it came to pass that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was taken to Minas Tirith, the capital of Gondor, the city of Kings, to which he had never before travelled, and was brought before the ruling Steward.


	2. Aragorn Arrives In Minas Tirith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn arrives in Minas Tirith

## Chapter 2: Aragorn Arrives In Minas Tirith

During the journey to Minas Tirith, Aragorn had, thanks to the riders’ care and kind encouragement, managed to once again get his sorrow under control. The shock had passed and the pain in his heart mercifully lessened just a little each passing day. Slowly but surely life began to interest him once more and he began to pay attention to his surroundings and what was happening around him.

Upon seeing the city for the first time, Aragorn found Minas Tirith lacked the grand and breathtaking appeal his father had told him about when he had spoken of the city. The beauty and timelessness that he had talked about with awe and longing in his voice eluded Aragorn. The city seemed dark and worn. The colours, sunshine, and life that his father had mentioned with fond remembrance seemed to have dried out.

All but one of the riders had said their farewells to Aragorn outside the city walls. It had been an emotional goodbye and Aragorn had had to find all his courage to let them go and not ask to go with them. They had been kind to him and had become his one safe haven in his new life and the uncertainty of his fate made the moment even harder. Thankfully the rider who had taken such kind care of him from the beginning as if he had been his own son, had taken him all the way to the foot of the palace, right beside the dead White Tree, the symbol of Gondor. He had spoken with kind and encouraging words about his future and had embraced Aragorn tightly in farewell. He had offered to go with him to see the Steward but they had both known Aragorn would stand stronger if he went alone; more a man than a child. At Aragorn’s brave assurance he would be fine, the rider had wished him a long and prosperous life and had galloped out of the city. Aragorn had watched him disappear in the distance, forcing down his feelings of insecurity, abandonment and fear. Aragorn felt as if his grim thoughts were fuelled by an uneasy feeling of darkness which lay over the city like a shroud and which seemed intensified in the palace. He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts and with his head held high, his fears and insecurities pushed to the back of his mind, he approached a Gondorian guard and requested he be taken before the Steward.

The guard led Aragorn through the palace which indeed was impressive with high ceilings and many beautiful statues; the remains of a lost royal era. Though Aragorn was as far from home as he had ever been, seeing it all was strangely like coming home.

The guard asked Aragorn to wait outside the throne room on a beautiful white stone bench surrounded by statues, and he had done so, wondering what the Steward would be like. He owned few possessions, as most had burned in the fire, but what he owned he had wrapped in a blanket and it sat beside him on the bench. He had made sure to dress in his nicest clothes and wash before entering the city, yet still his clothes were clearly forest clothes compared to the townsfolks’, and even more so when compared to the guards and people moving about the palace.

Aragorn again reminded himself that he had to be on his best behaviour. If the Steward did not accept him, he did not know where else he would go. Fighting off his nervousness as one hour of waiting went by, he purposely took up the only book he had managed to save, one of his most prized possessions despite fire having eaten at the cover and the corners. He began to read the Elven tale, written in the Rivendell Elven tongue, and while doing so, remembered his mother who had often read with him and for him, with bittersweet fondness that made tears come to his eyes.

“His Lordship will see you now,” the guard came back and said, his appearance forcing Aragorn’s thoughts out of the book and his memories. Aragorn put the book away and followed him into the large throne room, holding his precious bundle with his belongings in his embrace.

The throne room was breathtaking. High ceilings, smooth stone floors, and many detailed and impressive statues. Aragorn admired it all with awe as he was escorted to the end of the room where an older, big-boned man sat in a large chair, wearing a long, warm, and decorated cape over his finely decorated clothes. He had long hair that was beginning to turn grey at the edges, and a hard face, his lips drawn back into a snarl as if he always expected bad news. There was a certain sadness and rawness to the Steward’s look, as if the world had tried to break him several times and he was now holding on with his fingertips, fighting everyone who came near him, friend or foe, no longer able to see the difference. This earned him Aragorn’s sympathy. He had the impression this man had not smiled or laughed in a long time. There were other people in the room, a few older men. Judging from their clothes, they were advisors, noblemen, or generals. They had all moved to one side of the room to give Aragorn space to be presented and were too far away to hear the introduction of him or anything else that would go on between the Steward and his guest though they would be able to see it. Behind the Steward’s chair stood a man half-hidden, silent but watchful. His eyes were warm and strong and he seemed some years older than the Steward. He seemed to counteract the Steward’s hard and dark look with one of sympathy and curiosity. From his position at the Steward’s side, Aragorn guessed he was the Steward’s advisor. He dismissed them all as unimportant for now, focusing on the man in front of him.

“Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Your Lordship,” the guard presented him with a bow for the Steward and as the Steward waved at him in a dismissive gesture, the guard bowed once more and left the room.

Aragorn kept his eyes on the ruler of Gondor as he gave him a respectful bow, keeping one hand on the sword he had inherited from his father, to make sure it wouldn’t get in his way.

“I was told of your arrival, lad,” the Steward said with a frown as if the news had annoyed him. He looked Aragorn up and down, measuring him and apparently found the boy dressed so plainly, he found him wanting in many yet somehow satisfying ways, judging from the way his frown eased up.

Aragorn knew what he would see looking at him. He was strongly built, fit from a life in the wild, and tall for his age. His hair was dark, almost black, and reached his shoulders. It hung loose and framed his face, with its strong forehead and pale blue eyes. He had a strength to his face few boys his age had. Though his clothes were plain, he had a strong and proud bearing and his face was handsome and expressive when he allowed it to be, his soul reflected in his eyes.

“I hope I may be allowed to serve Gondor in whatever way you see fit, Your Lordship,” Aragorn said respectfully, hiding his annoyance at the Steward’s disrespectful address of him. Though he was no King, he was from noble roots and deserved a better address than that of a small child or a plain farmer.

Denethor looked thoughtful, as if considering the best course of action, his eyes resting on Aragorn. “Very well,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You may live here, at the palace and I shall raise you with my sons.” He paused. “Mayhap your presence will improve the performance of the youngest for nothing else has,” he ended, his voice and eyes hard and cold.

Aragorn was shocked that a father would speak so disrespectfully of his own kin, and then a son, in front of an audience even if said audience were softly talking among themselves and wouldn’t be able to hear the words that transpired between the two of them. The ease with which the Steward had made the remark made Aragorn think the others in the room were probably used to such comments.

Aragorn schooled his face and voice to betray nothing of his emotions. No matter what, he now had a place to be, somewhere to belong and being raised with the Steward’s sons was a high position to be given. He felt relieved and grateful that his future seemed secure, safe, and comfortable. “I thank you, my Lord,” he said, and gave another bow.

The Steward’s face hardened even more as he replied, “I know well the inheritance that Arathorn claimed but you shall find no support for such mad ramblings here.”

Aragorn’s hand formed a fist at his side and his hand on his sword handle tightened at this comment. He had to hold himself firmly in check not to jump to the defence of his father’s memory. If his father had said he carried the line of Kings within him then Aragorn knew he did. However, what he should do about it he did not yet know.

Denethor apparently didn’t notice Aragorn’s inner struggle, caught up in his own thoughts as he went on, knowing his voice wouldn’t carry across the hall to the people standing in the far corner, talking quietly, “I shall call you... Strider, a ranger’s name and you may tell no one of the name of your birth. Is this understood?”

Aragorn hesitated, some of the relief at his secured future fading. Besides the guard who had introduced him then no one would know of his true name. He held the rangers in high regard but to take on a ranger’s name on command instead of the one given to him by his parents was not an order he took lightly. On the other hand, he needed Denethor’s protection until the day where he was of age and had been educated in books and sword well enough to lead his own life – a life which might include challenging Denethor for his birthright. Staying here, being raised with Denethor’s two sons, would give him more than defending his family and his own honour would. For now he had little choice.

“It is understood, Your Lordship.” Aragorn was proud of himself that he could say this so calmly, betraying none of his emotions or his feelings of humiliation and defeat, his eyes never leaving the Steward’s.

Denethor looked momentarily disappointed that Aragorn had not given him the victory of seeing him fight with his command, which made Aragorn strangle a smug smile.

“Furthermore, you will claim your parents were peasants killed by Orcs and if naming them never name them truly,” Denethor went on, his voice still not carrying across the space of the hall.

“No.” His voice was calm but inside Aragorn was furious. There was no way he would deny his own father; his inheritance.

“No?” Denethor asked with a raised brow, looking shocked at his defiance.

Aragorn looked him straight in the eyes, not backing down. “No, Your Lordship. I will give you my word that while I am in your charge I will never mention my name, my parents, or my lineage, not even if asked, but I will never name them falsely.”

Denethor and Aragorn fought a battle of wills until Denethor looked away from Aragorn’s piercing gaze and made an irritated hand movement. “Then give me that vow and be done with it.”

“I give you my word, Your Lordship, and my word is my bond,” Aragorn vowed.

Silence fell over the room until Denethor waved at him with an irritated hand movement as if he was an unwanted insect.

“Leave. Ask one of the guards outside to take you to my son, Boromir’s, room and explain your business to him. He will know what to do.”

Aragorn bowed once more. “Thank you, Your Lordship,” he said, and quickly left the room, thinking that he had never made an enemy as fast as he had in Denethor, the man he now had to obey as a father. Yet despite everything he felt more at peace now that his future was settled and he had a place to be. Still, if the father’s behaviour was anything to judge by, Aragorn did not look forward to meeting his son Boromir. Therefore it was with a sigh that he asked a guard outside the throne room to lead him to the young Lord’s chambers.

Unknown to Aragorn, Denethor was thoughtful, looking after the young man who had just left.

“Is Your Lordship sure you wish to foster him? We have received word that Lord Elrond of Rivendell has offered to take him in,” the Steward’s advisor, who had been standing silent behind his Lord, now asked, concern for the young charge in his voice and face.

But Denethor wasn’t looking at him.

“I considered it but he claims to be of the line of Kings and some might believe that claim. Through the years I have learned to keep my enemies closer than my friends.”

“He is but a boy,” his advisor protested.

“A boy who will soon grow into a man,” Denethor said darkly. “I can try and take the King out of the boy but the man will still remain and I wish that man to serve me; not challenge me.”

“I shall make sure he takes lessons with your sons,” the advisor said after considerable silence.

“Yes... and do not let him know anyone else offered to take him in, especially not that cursed Elf,” Denethor ordered harshly. He needed Aragorn on his side, needed him to feel obligation and gratitude if nothing else. Maybe, if he played his cards right, his strongest defender, after his son Boromir of course, would be Aragorn. And if not… if Aragorn showed himself to grow into an enemy, he would deal with him as he did all enemies of Gondor; he would get rid of him, one way or another.

The advisor gave an inaudible sigh, sympathy for the young man in his voice as he replied, “As you wish.”


	3. Meeting the Steward’s Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn meets the Steward’s sons

## Chapter 3: Meeting the Steward’s Sons

“Stay and face your destiny!”

The loud command, spoken with authority and steel echoed through the hallway and made Aragorn look worriedly around, one hand tightening around his sword. He cast the Gondorian guard leading him towards Boromir’s chambers a searching look but the guard looked undisturbed, which made Aragorn relax a little though not completely.

“Lord Boromir’s room... Sir,” the guard said, apparently not sure how to address Aragorn. He had been the one to introduce him and knew the name Aragorn to have noble ties, but Aragorn had gently corrected him when he had addressed him as Aragorn, asking him to call him Strider instead, on order of the Steward.

They had stopped before a large wooden door, the nearest door some distance away, indicating this was a large room; in fact it seemed to be the largest on the hallway.

“Do not get into trouble for the sake of my dignity,” Aragorn said softly and the guard nodded, relief shining in his eyes.

“As you wish... Strider.” The guard bowed for him before he left, leaving Aragorn standing outside Boromir’s chamber with his bundle of possessions under one arm and his right hand still resting on his sword handle.

“Ahhhh!” The youthful scream of a young boy echoed through the hallway, coming from inside the room Aragorn was standing in front of. He was now sure the command he had heard had also come from Boromir’s room. Without thinking of the consequences of storming into the room of the Steward’s oldest son, Aragorn dropped his bundle on the floor, kept his hand on his sword handle and crashed into the room.

The scene that met Aragorn’s eyes made him act on instinct, thinking with sadness that his darkest fear about the Steward’s son had been proved right.

A young boy around four was standing on the finely made bed, dressed plainly but in fine clothes, looking horrified at a boy around Aragorn’s age, maybe a few years younger than his own 14 years. Both boys were strongly built with aristocratic features, the oldest possessing green eyes like opals and the youngest with soulful eyes as blue as a summer sky. While the young boy’s face, even now when masked in terror, was friendly and warm with kind eyes, the older boy’s face looked more reserved, harder, and his green eyes sparkled like cut green glass. Unlike the young boy, the older boy was dressed more finely, his robes decorated with colours and stones that sparkled in the light of the candles which were lit in the candle holders on the walls and standing around the room.

Aragorn looked from the young boy to where the older was standing at the end of the bed, on the far side of the room. He was pointing a wooden sword towards the young boy threateningly.

Without thinking, acting purely on instinct, Aragorn quickly reached for the young boy on the bed, lifted him into his arms and put him on the floor behind him, taking out his own sword in one swift motion, his other hand holding the boy behind him and pressed against him.

“Boro!” the boy cried from behind where Aragorn had positioned himself protectively in front of him. Aragorn didn’t believe it was possible to move as fast as the young man, whom Aragorn had figured out had to be Boromir, did now. In a matter of seconds, Boromir had dropped the wooden sword, reached the real sword that had been resting on top of the desk, drawn it, thrown the scabbard on the floor and crossed the room in less than 3 steps. The tip of his sword was now resting against Aragorn’s throat as he eyed Aragorn up and down, noticing his plain clothes.

“Unhand my brother, peasant, and I shall grant you a quick and painless death,” Boromir promised darkly, his green eyes as dark as if a storm was raging in them.

Aragorn had managed to raise his sword so it was resting close to Boromir’s stomach, his other hand still pressing the young boy close to his legs and keeping him behind him, his body a shield.

“I am no mere peasant, Lord Boromir, but Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” Aragorn said, not sure if he should believe Boromir’s words and if they were true how to resolve the dangerous situation he suddenly found himself in. _The vow to the Steward cannot include his own children who, surely, will already know my true name_ , Aragorn thought, hoping it would calm Boromir’s temper.

Boromir didn’t even blink. “I shall make sure your name is carved on the stone marking your grave,” he said darkly.

“Boro!” the young boy cried again, sounding truly afraid .

Realising the situation was truly starting to get out of control, Aragorn fought to find a safe way to resolve it. He felt relieved for both the boy and himself that he had apparently misunderstood the situation. Now, however, he just had to convince Boromir that he was no danger to them. In an effort to try and relieve the tension, Aragorn tried to explain, letting his body and voice soften. “I thought the boy in danger.”

“He is never in danger when with me. I would give my life so he would live,” Boromir said solemnly, and in his eyes Aragorn read the truth of his words. In that moment he gained a measure of respect for the young man for this loyalty if nothing else.

Aragorn nodded in response to the words. He was now convinced this was a young man of honour and integrity. Still, his heart beat wildly in his chest when he slowly lowered his sword to the side and let go of the boy. “I apologize for my error in judgement.”

The boy ran to his brother and Boromir embraced him one-handed, keeping his sword on Aragorn but sparing his brother a quick look to assure himself he was unharmed. Relief floated in his eyes before he returned his full attention to Aragorn.

“Who are you who enters my chambers uninvited?”

“I apologize; I had naught the right. I thought the boy in danger and acted to protect him.”

“It was a game. Boro would never hurt me,” the boy said, trying to step away from his brother, but Boromir reached out his free hand, blocking his way towards Aragorn and the boy obediently stayed behind the raised arm.

“What business do you have in these halls? Access to this floor is restricted,” Boromir asked with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

“Your father has generously taken me into his family and asked me to locate you,” Aragorn said politely, hoping he could create a bond with the Steward’s sons that could help make the coming years easier.

Boromir looked at him for a few seconds, his expression thoughtful. “If ever you try to harm my brother I shall cut you down where you stand,” Boromir said evenly, his voice strong and his eyes like steel.

Aragorn knew the words were not a threat but a promise and he nodded. “A reasonable demand.”

Boromir seemed to consider whether or not he thought Aragorn sincere but apparently decided he was speaking truth in his silent vow not to harm that which was so precious to his heart.

Boromir lowered his sword and Aragorn put his own back in the scabbard. As the weapons disappeared from view, so did the tension from the room like rain from the sun.

With the tension gone Aragorn had time to notice his surroundings. Boromir’s room was large, with three doors, one leading to the hallway, the one he had just used, and two leading to connecting rooms. The room also had two large windows facing the palace’s garden as well as a large bed, a desk with a chair, a wardrobe, a cupboard, and a bedside table. All the furniture was of the finest wooden design filled with extraordinary details and various fine candleholders and decorative items were visible around the room. Aragorn had never been in a city and had never before seen such glamour and luxury.

“So, you are **that** Aragorn,” Boromir commented and his words betrayed that he had not only heard of Aragorn’s coming, but also of his family’s claimed lineage, and his voice clearly said that he doubted Aragorn’s claim to the line of Kings.

“Your father commands my name from henceforth be Strider,” Aragorn told him, again having to fight to keep the emotions out of his voice as he talked about it. The pain of his loss was fading but it was always close to heart.

Boromir’s eyes narrowed. “He would,” he mumbled before he turned around and picked up the sword scabbard from where he had thrown it to the floor. He sheathed the sword with one fluent motion before he laid it back on the desk. Then he turned back to face Aragorn.

“My name is Faramir. I am four years of age. Boromir is my brother, 8 years older than me,” the young boy told Aragorn with a friendly smile, as if already forgetting the fright Aragorn had given him.

Aragorn shook the boy’s offered hand.

“A pleasure,” Aragorn said with a smile before Faramir withdrew his hand again.

“My brother is the bestest swordsman in all the land!” Faramir continued proudly, making Aragorn smile and wish he had had siblings...which, thinking about it, he guessed he had just gotten. The thought made him smile in hope that he could create a new kind of family here.

“The best, little one,” Boromir corrected him with a smile, ruffling his hair as he came to him. Boromir turned his attention to Aragorn. “My father must wish you to sleep in this wing for him to send you to me. My brother has the room to my right, you may have the one to my left.” As he explained, Boromir went to the door at the left side of his room and opened it, Faramir close behind, followed by Aragorn.

“It is a nice room,” Aragorn commented as he looked around his new room. It was about half the size of Boromir’s room and had one window also facing the garden as well as a smaller-sized bed, a smaller wardrobe, cupboard, a desk and a chair as well as a bedside table. Everything was finely made and the room was pleasant and well kept.

“It will do,” Boromir agreed while Faramir looked around interestedly, his face showing his excitement at all the new things happening around him.

“Come. I shall help you settle in,” Boromir said and laid a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder as he passed him going back into his own room to search for Aragorn’s belongings in the hallway. Aragorn gave a small smile, which grew wider as Faramir trustingly took his hand and led him back into his brother’s room.

_Maybe my years here in Gondor’s palace will not be as terrible as I had first feared_ , Aragorn thought with a hopeful smile.


	4. Family Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with Denethor

## Chapter 4: Family Dinner

The three boys had spent the few hours till dinner time getting Aragorn’s room ready, Boromir having the servants supply him with pen and paper for his desk, the maid to make the bed and clean the room more thoroughly and put candles in the candle holders as well as supply him with matches.

“We dine with my father whenever he is in the citadel,” Boromir explained as they walked through the castle towards the dining room.

Faramir had a firm grip on his brother’s hand and looked more uncomfortable walking to a quiet family dinner with his own father than he should, which made Aragorn wonder if there was something he should know.

“Is it customary to change?” Aragorn asked, trying to straighten his plain clothes. These were his finest clothes: a white shirt made from fine material, dark pants and boots. The warm shirt he had over the white one was also dark but fine and warm. He had managed to save little in the way of clothes.

“Only if you have been sword practicing or other such activities. Then a bath and a change would be advisable,” Boromir told him with humour in his eyes, trying to lighten the mood for his brother who gave the expected smile though it seemed forced.

“I did not discuss this with your father but I need to know how much I am expected to provide for myself,” Aragorn asked plainly. Growing up in the wild, he was not used to the double talk of court life that his parents had told him about and from what little he knew of it, he felt sure he had no taste for it either.

“In what way? I am quite certain you are expected to attend classes with my brother and me as well as meals and other activities,” Boromir told him as they turned a corner and neared a large wooden door, a guard on either side. At the sight, Faramir held on tighter to Boromir’s hand, who gave a reassuring squeeze.

“Clothes for one.”

Boromir stopped, forcing Faramir and Aragorn, who had walked beside him on either side down the corridor, to do likewise. “He does not keep his youngest with new clothes. Why should he do so for the man who thinks himself King?” Boromir’s voice was plain and frank, not threatening but simply making a statement.

“I see.” Aragorn was silent for a few seconds, shocked by this news. Though it was common among people of lesser means to buy new clothes only for the oldest and have the younger inherit, it was unheard of in wealthier families. “Your brother seems finely dressed to me,” he comforted, thinking the financial strain the unrest near Mordor’s borders had put on all of Gondor could have touched the Steward’s family as well, though the logic behind the lack of priority on the Steward’s youngest child escaped him.

“I keep him in clothes. My own old ones and that which have belonged to a friend’s brother. Sometimes, not often, I have enough coins on me to be able to buy something new for him.” Boromir paused before he added, almost as if he felt he needed to, “The conflict with Mordor swallows more and more resources. My father believes the war effort and other matters to be of higher importance than this.”

It was obvious to Aragorn that admitting he had to let his brother wear used clothes was a humiliation to him, and his eyes told Aragorn that he did not agree with his father’s reasoning. This fact eased Aragorn for anything less would have shattered the image he was forming of Boromir; an image of a young man he could see himself one day calling brother.

Aragorn looked to Faramir but he didn’t seem to understand what both older boys did; it was an insult to let the son of a Steward wear used clothes, no matter the reason or how fine or new they appeared. Even if it was any father’s right to raise and treat his children in any way he saw fit, Aragorn had never known any other way of upbringing than his own, and though he had never had any siblings, Aragorn knew his father would never have treated any child of his in a similar fashion.

“No one who was not told will know,” Aragorn assured him, and Boromir nodded, relief in his eyes.

“Take steps to keep it that way,” Boromir said as he started to walk again, making Faramir and Aragorn do likewise.

Aragorn nodded his agreement, knowing if this were common knowledge, the servants and anyone else who saw Faramir might think less of him. Faramir had been nothing but sweet and kind to him, and Aragorn would do nothing to humiliate or hurt the young boy.

“Agreed.”

Aragorn’s next worry was for himself; he had no money and did not expect to be given any which would make it difficult to find new clothes for himself. For now though, he let the concern lie.

They had reached the large door and the guards opened it for them. “Not a word of this to Father,” Boromir whispered under his breath at Aragorn who let his confusion at the request show, not sure why Denethor would be angry that his oldest son provided his youngest with clothes, but nodded agreement none the less.

“Boromir! My son!” Denethor said with a smile as they entered, Boromir in the lead.

The Steward rose from his chair at the head of a large and finely decorated wooden table and went to his oldest son, smiling as he stretched out his arms towards him. Boromir smiled back as he let go of Faramir and crossed the distance so he could embrace his father.

At the sight of his father, Faramir had stopped where Boromir had let go of his hand, looking lost, but at the sight of the embrace, he began to smile and reach out his arms towards his father.

“Papa,” Faramir said happily, unconsciously using the childish title to gain his father’s attention as he began to walk towards him.

Aragorn remained where Boromir had left them, unsure of what to do and suddenly feeling very out of place. He had to fight down a renewed wave of loss and grief as the scene brought back memories of his own father.

“Come, dine with me,” Denethor said as with an arm around Boromir’s shoulders, he walked back towards his chair. Four plates had been set up, Denethor’s at the end of the table and then three after each other on one side instead of what Aragorn would have thought; Denethor sitting with a son on each side of him. He assumed the setting could be a leftover from when Faramir had been younger; few fathers wanted to have to deal with infants and in particular not the practical side of it.

Faramir stopped his walk towards his father as he saw him move away and back to the table with Boromir, not even sparing him a glance. Boromir looked at him over his shoulder with a lost look as if his father’s arm around his shoulders was a weight holding him down.

“Boro?” Faramir whispered, tears in his voice as he was left behind. Feeling sorry for the young boy, Aragorn went to him and picked him up, supporting the boy’s light weight on his hip.

“This sure is a grand room. Do you dine here every night?” Aragorn asked Faramir softly as he carried him to the table, smiling widely at him, trying to make him forget what had just happened, with his free hand indicating the impressive statues, the fire pits positioned around the room for warmth, and the impressive large chandelier holding many lit candles raised high above their heads. In his concern for Faramir, Aragorn’s earlier grief over the loss of his parents faded back into a bittersweet ache in the back of his mind.

Faramir nodded. “Most of the time. Sometimes when father is away, I eat with Boro in the kitchen. I enjoy that a lot,” Faramir told him in a whispered tone, letting Aragorn remove the sadness from his face.

“I am sure you have a very skilled cook,” Aragorn said as he put Faramir back down on the stone floor beside the chair next to Boromir’s. Both Denethor and Boromir were now already seated and talking together. Denethor raised his hand and one of the servants who had been standing up against the wall, as silently and still as the many beautiful statues, now moved to the far end where there was a small door in the opposite side of the room from where they had entered. Not long after the servant had disappeared than he reappeared, a maid with a tray of food walking behind him. The servant returned to his place up against the wall and the maid began to serve the Steward.

Faramir and Aragorn couldn’t have been more plainly put in their place when no looks or piece of conversation fell their way, but Faramir didn’t seem to mind or find it odd. After Aragorn had wiped the boy’s tears away with his shirtsleeve, Faramir seated himself and silently waited for the maid to serve his father and then his brother.

When the maid reached Faramir, she seemed unsure who to serve first; Aragorn who was older, or Faramir who was the Steward’s son. Seeing that Denethor and Boromir were eating and talking about stately affairs and Boromir’s progress in various areas, Aragorn smiled reassuringly at the maid.

“Serve the young Prince first. I am but a guest in this house.” His own words reminded Aragorn that he would never truly fit in here yet somehow he was not as sad about this fact as he thought he would be. Boromir and Faramir’s presence promised to provide him with all the belonging he needed and doubted he needed anything else. He had his memories of his own parents and had no desire to see them replaced.

The young servant girl smiled, obviously relieved at having been spared the dilemma, and served first Faramir and then Aragorn before she disappeared. Aragorn noticed that the Steward and Boromir had been served wine by the maid, but Faramir and he had not been served anything. He was pondering how to raise this issue without making a scene when the maid returned and poured water into Faramir and his cup. Both cups were finely made though not decorated with jewels the way Denethor’s and Boromir’s were; a common difference to indicate who was considered a man and who a child as well as differences in status. She blushed in embarrassment as she filled Aragorn’s cup with water, well aware that he was way past the normal age where a young man was offered wine, but he smiled reassuringly to her.

“We all have our orders,” he said softly and she nodded, once again obviously relieved that he understood this was not ill-intentioned from her side. Aragorn glanced at Denethor for a second and though the man never glanced at him, Aragorn was sure he knew his eyes rested on him. Denethor was trying to show him his place, show him who was Steward, who had control here. Show him that though he thought himself a future King he most certainly wasn’t one. Did he really think Aragorn would try and take Gondor from him? That he would plot against him now, trying to find a weakness? Well, if he did, Aragorn just had to prove he was wrong, prove that he was not an enemy. He had to be on his best behaviour, he again reminded himself. He could not afford to create enemies now.

As the maid disappeared once more, Faramir and Aragorn began to eat, and Aragorn let his musings lie for now. The dinner tonight was a stew served with a lump of bread and it was as delicious as food from the Steward’s table should be. Aragorn couldn’t help but cast glances around the table and saw Boromir give his brother a brief smile once in a while but otherwise his father demanded his full attention. Faramir seemed to find this normal, for he ate quickly and in silence. Aragorn wondered if all their meals would be like this, for he hoped that would ensure they were all over fast. There was an atmosphere of tension and formality over the table that Aragorn had never felt or been a part of before. His parents had loved each other and had encouraged their only child to participate in any dinner conversation they had, listening to his arguments and contradicting them only if they felt his arguments did not add up. He was, however, well aware that such lack of formal, respectful distance between parents and children was rare.

“So, young Faramir, what do you like to do?” Aragorn asked him, forcing a smile. If they were both to be treated as invisible children, an insult Aragorn knew he could carry easily enough, he could just as well try and get to know his new ally better.

Faramir looked momentarily shocked that anyone would address him during dinner but then smiled, apparently happy to have someone take an interest. “I like to read and write... I like the flowers in the garden, and the horses. And the dogs,” he said happily, joy and amazement that anyone would ask him what he liked clear in his voice and eyes.

“You can write at this tender age?” Aragorn asked with awe. “Your father must be very proud of you.”

Faramir shook his head sadly and his face fell, making him look like a lost puppy, making Aragorn regret his words. “He says words are for womenfolk.”

Aragorn put a calming hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “He is wrong. I, for one, love words.”

“You do?” Faramir asked, brightening at once at the thought that the older boy said his passion was all right.

Aragorn withdrew his hand and smiled as he nodded. “I have a book of Elvish poetry and stories with me. If you wish we could read it together,” Aragorn offered.

“I love the Elves,” Faramir admitted with a whisper as if he had been told it was a bad thing he had just admitted to. “But I cannot read their language. It is beautiful to look at; so many curves and lines.”  
  


Aragorn smiled at this. “I shall teach you then.”

“You know the language of the Elves?” Faramir asked in awe, his eyes wide.

Aragorn’s smile widened at Faramir’s sweet fascination. “The Elven race has many languages. I speak merely the language of the Rivendell Elves.”

“Have you ever seen an Elf?” Faramir asked, his excitement not dampened one bit.

“Sadly, no, for I admire them greatly and would be honoured to do so,” Aragorn admitted, and he saw how Faramir’s face fell. “But,” he added, and Faramir looked excitedly at him once more. “There is a legend that says that the powerful Lady of the Golden Wood wanders the woods close to where I grew up every night when the moon shines full and white.”

“Who is this Elven lady?” Faramir asked, enchanted by Aragorn’s story. Seeing the boy’s joy in his tale Aragorn reasoned that the untrue tale would be forgiven him should he ever meet the powerful Elven lady.

“She is an Elf as old as time, as powerful as a storm, and as beautiful as a spring flower.”

“Would she come to Gondor or could a mere mortal like me travel to her?” Faramir asked eagerly, moving as close to Aragorn as he could come while still staying in his seat as if to be sure he didn’t miss any words from his lips.

“You could travel to her realm of the Golden Wood but caution...the Wood is closely guarded by skilled Elven bowmen, commanded by the brave and faithful Haldir.”

Faramir shone like a sun, fully into the tale, when suddenly Denethor’s voice broke the spell Aragorn’s words had weaved around the young boy.

“I will not hear any talk of those cursed creatures around this table!” Denethor boomed, waving his cup around threateningly. His hard words made Faramir crouch back in his chair in fright while Aragorn met Denethor’s hard gaze head-on. “The Elves care only for themselves and are a race filled with treachery and sorcery. They cannot be trusted.”

“They can too! They are kind and magical!” Faramir insisted stubbornly with the heat of a child who was defending his heroes.

Denethor’s eyes narrowed and he put his jewelled cup back on the table. “Are you defying me, boy?”

Faramir’s sudden courage disappeared in the light of his father’s dark eyes upon him and he tried to pull so far back into his chair as if he wished it would swallow him whole. His face went white in fear and he bit his lower lip to prevent tears as he shook his head.

“N... No, Sir.”

Aragorn looked from one to the other, shocked by Denethor’s harshness and he got a bitter taste in his mouth at the thought of why Faramir could be so frightened just by his father’s raised voice. His own father had always treated both his mother and he with honour and kindness and he had never raised his voice at either of them without it being justified, nor had he ever punished his son without good reason and, mostly due to his mother’s intervention, the punishment had never been very severe. However, his father’s disappointment in him when he acted badly was the worst punishment and he had always done his best to bring honour to his father’s name and make himself worthy of his mother’s faithful love and support.

“He meant no offence. The Elven race merely fascinates us both, Lord Steward,” Aragorn said softly, calmly, as he laid a comforting hand on Faramir’s back.

Denethor looked even angrier though Aragorn hadn’t thought that possible. “How dare you talk against me at my own table, Strider?” he thundered, spitting out the ranger name as if it was a curse.

Faramir tried to hide in his seat and pulled closer to his brother, who ignored him, but before Aragorn could get angry with him, he saw that Boromir had found and now held his brother’s hand under the table and only looked indifferent to his brother’s distress to anyone who could not see the hidden gesture.

“I apologize though I—” Aragorn began calmly, wanting to express his confusion as to what he had done wrong. He had never had to apologize so many times before, and then in one day, and though he was not an arrogant man, he was still a proud man. He would easily apologize if he found it justified, but Denethor seemed to purposely twist every word to their darkest possible meaning.

“Father, you were talking about your orders for Gondor’s rangers and how to defend our eastern border. What place does Rohan take in this strategy against Mordor and the bloody threat She represents? Could we count on their assistance in a possible attack?” Boromir interrupted Aragorn’s calm and soft words, all his attention seemingly on his father but Aragorn could see he was still holding Faramir’s hand under the table.

Denethor seemed to consider how to respond for a few seconds but then his eyes left Aragorn, and as they returned to rest on Boromir, they softened as did his face and body language. He began to reply, and Aragorn realised Boromir’s diversion had worked.

After a few seconds, Aragorn felt himself relax once more and the meal resumed. Soon also Faramir began to eat again, letting go of Boromir’s hand now that he felt the threat was over.

The rest of the meal passed uneventfully with Faramir restarting their conversation about the Golden Lady, keeping the conversion low and soft and first speaking when Denethor and Boromir were fully into their own debate once more. Aragorn kept his voice low out of respect for Faramir’s safety, not sure what Denethor might do, although he felt like talking loudly and clearly to show Denethor that he was not cowered.

Leaving the dining room had gone more smoothly than entering; Faramir had been tired after the long meal and caught up in Aragorn’s tale. To make things easier, Aragorn had picked Faramir up so when Denethor had embraced Boromir and wished him a good night, Faramir had done nothing more than reach a hand towards them.

As soon as they were out of the room and the door had fallen shut behind the three boys Aragorn had wordlessly handed Faramir to Boromir. After hugging his brother, Boromir had told him that he was getting too old to be carried like a baby and had put him on the floor. Faramir hadn’t minded but had excitedly told Boromir Aragorn’s Elven tale to which Boromir had responded with patient and overbearing amusement. Boromir had then put Faramir in his room and had asked Aragorn to wait in the hallway. Aragorn had patiently, though curiously, waited but when Boromir returned after Faramir was safely in bed, he had not spoken a word but simply followed him to his room, stopping outside the door. Thinking he might have changed his mind about speaking with him, Aragorn laid a hand on the handle to his room and was about to say goodnight when Boromir spoke.

“Aragorn.” His voice stopped Aragorn from entering his chamber.

Now that Boromir had spoken, Aragorn turned to look at him, aware that the slightly younger boy had spoken his true name even though he knew his father did not wish him to use it.

“Lord Boromir?” Aragorn prompted politely when the young man fell silent, seemingly to search for words.

“What you did for my brother today...” he began softly but then fell silent. With a shake of his head he shook off his discomfort and offered Aragorn his hand. “I shall call you Aragorn whenever it is possible,” he vowed, and Aragorn knew there was much more to Boromir’s words than what he said and maybe one day those words would have an even deeper meaning.

“Thank you,” Aragorn said, his voice heartfelt, taking Boromir’s offered hand in a warrior’s grip, hand around the wrist. His words also said more than what they appeared to and as their hands fell apart, Aragorn felt like their simple words had covered more ground about their hopes for the future, for each other, and their opinions than a million words would have.

With a small and rare smile, the kind Aragorn had already seen he normally only reserved for Faramir, Boromir left and entered his own room. Aragorn looked after him thoughtfully for a few seconds, before he entered his own room, the door falling shut with a soft but powerful sound.


	5. Attending Class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir, Faramir and Aragorn attend class the next day.

## Chapter 5: Attending Class

“This is a waste of time. With such fine weather we should be outside riding, fencing, sword practicing, or any other manly activity. Instead we are cooped up inside like children and womenfolk,” Boromir complained to Aragorn, his whisper not quite a whisper. He eyed their teacher with a look meant to kill as he nodded towards one of the room’s two windows, showing the day was turning into a sunny day, ideal for outdoor activity, the autumn weather mild and inviting.

After a good night’s sleep, Boromir had knocked on Aragorn’s door around dawn. It was a time Aragorn was used to rising so he had fully enjoyed the morning ride Boromir and he had taken even though they hadn’t spoken more than a few words to each other but, simply enjoyed the freedom of nature. When they had returned, Boromir had awoken Faramir and they had all eaten breakfast in the kitchen since Denethor was in a meeting. Boromir had also assured him they rarely took any other meal than the evening meal with the steward, a fact that seemed to reassure the steward’s sons as much as it did Aragorn.

That meal had been much more enjoyable than dinner the night before. The conversation had been light and dominated by Faramir’s excited fairytales about Elves, dragons, and noble knights. After that they had gone to class where they were now, the sun having moved to show it was close to noon. Aragorn and Boromir were seated at each of their seats before a small wooden desk while Faramir had been allowed to leave his chair and was now drawing while sitting on the window bench, looking out over the city through the tall window.

After meeting Denethor, Aragorn had feared all his new teachers would be as unpredictable and cold towards him as Denethor had been, but at least this teacher was kind and acknowledged that Faramir was not able to keep up with Aragorn and Boromir.

Despite that Denethor would not allow Faramir to get teaching fitting his age, their teacher, Master Terialas, would try and give him easier assignments and more breaks. Aragorn was glad that his mother, born and raised to nobility with all its privileges, had taught him well which enabled him to, with hard work and concentration, follow the teachings fitting the highest of Gondor’s nobility.

Aragorn had quickly found that Denethor’s demands of his sons were exhaustingly high and for his youngest they were unrealistically so; though Faramir was an intelligent boy, there was no way he would be able to follow the teachings fitting a 12 year old. 

“I hear someone else in your voice,” Aragorn whispered back in reply to Boromir’s whispered complaint, his eyes and attention on the middle-aged teacher standing in front of them, explaining the finer works of various Gondorian writers from this and the earlier Age. As he listened and followed the teacher with his eyes, Aragorn would on occasion take notes with his pen on the paper lying before him to remind himself of the teacher’s highlights. Aragorn found this class more fascinating than the military history class they had earlier though Boromir felt just the opposite. Still, both boys did their best to excel in both classes.

“What do you mean?” Boromir whispered, leading towards Aragorn’s desk 

“Those words are your father’s; not yours.”

“Mayhap they coincide,” Boromir replied but his voice was not as strong as it could have been.

“Boro, see what I have written!” Faramir interrupted them, smiling excitedly as he pulled on his brother’s sleeve to get his attention and showed him a piece of paper which Boromir read with a smile.

“It is wonderful. Why don’t you show it to A...Strider?” he quickly corrected with a look at their teacher. They were not alone so even though their teacher was kind, it was not safe to speak in front of him for he was, after all, in the steward’s employment.

“I will.” Faramir gave Aragorn the paper, smiling brightly over his brother’s praise.

Aragorn scanned the paper. The letters were clumsy but readable.

“Edilor was an Elf. He got lost in the Golden Wood. The fine Lady found him. His mother came to get him. They went home and all was well,” Aragorn read out loud. At Faramir’s anxious look he smiled reassuringly. “This is a great story and you have very few spelling mistakes. Show it to Mr. Terialas. I am certain he will be impressed. I sure am.”

Faramir smiled as he ran to their teacher who had patiently stopped talking and allowed the display.

“He is very talented with words. Is he as talented with other arts as well?” Aragorn asked Boromir as he eyed Faramir excitedly show his tale to their teacher who patiently looked it over.

“He has talent in drawing as well, though what good it may do him I know not,” Boromir admitted with a sigh.

“You are not proud of his talent?”

Boromir gave him a piercing look. “I am always proud of him.”

“Yet?” Aragorn prompted, feeling there was something Boromir was not saying.

“His passion for books and painting will do him no favours when he takes his destined place as a leader of Gondor’s armies, facing waves of Orcs.” He paused, frowning before he went on, “This passion of his will leave him soft in the face of danger; I fear my father is right about this.”

“Compassion in war is not a weakness but a strength that separates us from the very enemy we are facing,” Aragorn said softly.

Boromir did not reply but looked thoughtful before he returned his attention to the notes on his paper and the book they were talking about. Aragorn looked at him for a few seconds, a small smile on his lips before he too returned his attention to his studies. 


	6. Sword Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys practice fighting

## Chapter 6: Sword Practice

Boromir got his wish fulfilled. A little after the three boys had eaten lunch in the kitchen, they had gone outside for sword practice. Faramir was too young, but Boromir had crafted him a wooden sword and he tried to mimic his brother’s movements as he stood on the sidelines, watching the two older boys practice.

Their teacher for this physical activity was the captain of the guard, a large and skilled man, hard but not unfair. What had puzzled Aragorn was that they were practicing in the castle’s courtyard for all to see; anyone in the castle looking out a window facing the yard, as well as anyone coming or going from the castle, servant or nobleman alike.

Aragorn had asked the captain about this when he was practicing with him alone while Boromir took a break, standing back and watching Aragorn move. The captain let him know that it was the steward’s wish that all could see his sons fight, especially Boromir. He was to lead Gondor and Her armies and needed to show himself worthy of this task.

In Aragorn’s opinion, it was unnecessary pressure and he could just imagine how Faramir would react when he realised this when he was old enough to practice. Considering how nervous he was with practically anyone, save Boromir and now also Aragorn and a few selected group of servants and teachers, it was sure to make the young boy even more nervous than he already was.

Well, he was here by the grace and kindness of the steward. He had gotten a bad image of him for sure, but he could have been mistaken. He owed him better than that and when all was said and done he really had no right to even form an opinion. It was none of his business how Denethor ran his household and as long as he was not affected then he should stay out of it. Yet he had a bad feeling that as time passed Faramir, and even Boromir, despite his distance, would manage to steal special places in his heart, making it impossible for him to stay out of Denethor’s way of raising his sons.

“Very nicely done,” the captain complimented him on his latest move, breaking Aragorn’s train of thought. Aragorn stood a step back and redid the series of moves, parades and hits that had earned him praise. His father had been a master swordsman and he had taught his son well, always loving and encouraging in his torturing. He practiced a bit more with the captain, holding him off nicely until the captain made a unexpected move and managed to force the sword from his hand.

“I surrender,” Aragorn said when the captain had his sword at his throat. The captain smiled as he drew back from him and put his sword back in its scabbard. He picked up Aragorn’s sword and handed it back to him handle first and Aragorn nodded his thanks as he sheathed it, seeing the gesture as the man’s way to give him back his pride after the defeat.

“You fought admiringly well, Strider,” the captain complimented when they walked to where Faramir and Boromir had been watching them.

“That was amazing!” Faramir said with large eyes as they had crossed the short distance and Aragorn smiled.

“Thank you.”

Aragorn turned towards Boromir and his smile died on his lips. Boromir looked ready to strangle him; his eyes as dark as the night.

“Boromir, why do you not spear with Strider for a few rounds?” the captain suggested, oblivious to the sudden tension between the two boys.

“With pleasure,” Boromir said darkly as he took his sword from its scabbard and Aragorn back stepped, drawing his own sword.

They circled each other until they were in the middle of the yard and some distance from Faramir and the captain who were both watching with interest. “Have I done you wrong somehow?” Aragorn asked softly and his honest question made Boromir look shocked at him before the dark expression returned.

“You should know well enough,” he sneered and jumped at Aragorn who sidestepped the angry attack. They began to change blows, Boromir with an angry intensity, which dulled his skills, and Aragorn calmly though confused at Boromir’s anger.

They kept circling each other, Boromir refusing to step down and Aragorn matching the blows, Boromir’s anger forcing Aragorn to be on the defence instead of the offence.

Aragorn had just managed to parade a blow from Boromir and had managed to get a rare attack in between Boromir’s quick and angry blows, pushing the other boy backwards when a voice sounded through the yard, “Is this the skill with which you will defend Gondor?”

Both boys froze and looked up to see Denethor looking down at them with displeasing eyes from the west wing’s open corridor, standing against the stone railing as he watched them through the large stone arcs facing the yard. Behind him stood several people from his entourage, watching curiously at the display below. Most of the palace’s windows had glass in them but some of the long corridors connecting the various wings of the palace had open stone arcs on both sides.

Boromir’s cheeks flamed hot with shame, anger and embarrassment. “No, Sire,” Boromir said softly.

“What was that?” Denethor asked and though Boromir’s words had been weak there was no doubt he had heard them the first time.

“No, Sire. It is not,” Boromir repeated loudly, lifting his head and meeting his gaze. 

“Words are for weaklings. If your words are true you will show them in deeds,” his father said disapprovingly, either oblivious to his oldest son’s embarrassment at being scowled in front of several onlookers from the court and several servants or simply not caring.

“Si…” Aragorn was about to make a respectful but critical comment to Denethor, his eyes raised as he looked up at him, his sword automatically lowering when suddenly Boromir charged him, making him tear his eyes back to the angry young man and barely managing to parade the blow. In that moment, Aragorn doubted Boromir remembered that this was just a practice but one in which they used real swords.

They traded blow after blow, Boromir’s attacks even more vicious than they had been before. _This is for his father_ , Aragorn realized. If what he had seen was any indication then Boromir was obviously Denethor’s favourite but now he saw that it also meant Boromir had become addicted to this place of favour and would do almost anything to keep his father’s love. He could understand a son’s need to make his father’s proud as well as a child’s need for a parent’s love.

He paraded blows with Boromir for a few minutes more and both were now sweating and panting heavily. Boromir might be able to beat him but not today; he was younger, more inexperienced, and he was letting his emotions control his actions; always a mistake in battle. However, at an opportune moment, Aragorn let his sword drop when Boromir swung at him, silently praying Boromir remembered to stop short of killing him.

His prayers were answered as Boromir stopped his next swing after he had knocked Aragorn’s sword from his hand, and stopped his sword a mere inch from his neck. Aragorn drew a relieved breath; for a second or two he had truly doubted if Boromir would remember to stop in time.

“I surrender,” Aragorn said calmly and their eyes locked.

“Well done, my son,” came Denethor’s proud voice and Boromir looked up at him and smiled strained. With a last satisfied smile at his son, Denethor moved on, forcing his entourage to do likewise and soon they had disappeared into the western wing and were out of sight.

Boromir returned his attention to Aragorn and after a second or two of looking into his eyes as if searching for something, he removed his sword, almost reluctantly. He went and picked Aragorn’s sword up and handed it to him, handle first.

“Thank you.”

Aragorn put his sword back in the scabbard and Boromir did likewise with his own.

“Strider.” The name spoken to him here, where they were far enough away for Boromir to have used his true name made Aragorn aware that his newly found friend was still upset with him.

“Yes?”  
  


“I fight to win but I wish to win fairly or not at all.”

“I understand yet I was merely…” Aragorn began, making an assuring gesture.

“Do not patronize me again,” Boromir interrupted, his voice hard.

“I would never…” Aragorn began but before he could finish Boromir had moved away and was crossing the distance to Faramir and the captain.

_Stubborn, proud and taken to rage but also protective and insightful_ , Aragorn mused silently as he watched Boromir and saw the younger man smile, his whole body language changing when he reached his younger brother. Very interesting combination. Very interesting indeed. Aragorn wondered if this combination would end up uniting them or tearing them apart. 


	7. A Dangerous Combination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir and Aragorn talk

## Chapter 7: A Dangerous Combination

This was becoming annoying, not to mention frustrating.

It was now close to dinnertime and since their sword practice, Boromir had done his best to avoid Aragorn, taking Faramir with him. They had had one more lesson, this one about the current state of affairs in Gondor. It had went well enough in the sense that Faramir was off with a nanny, Boromir had been purposely ignoring him, and the teacher had done likewise after declaring he was a ‘wild peasant boy who believes himself better than he is’ as he had said with an arrogant air.

After this, Boromir and Faramir had gone off somewhere and Aragorn had been unsure of what to do with himself, so he had wandered the halls of the palace, exploring it a bit more. It was beautiful and grand; high ceilings, statues, tapestries, and decorated furniture. But there was a gloomy feeling over it all; the place felt…grey somehow. Having finished his solitude tour, he found he was still not missed, and the only people he met were servants who hastily moved past him to carry on their chores. He had lived in a forest all his life but it was first now, in a grand palace, that he felt alone. He had been used to always having somewhere to be, someone who would miss him and be there for him.

He found the library and since it was deserted, he seated himself in a large soft chair by the fire.

His thoughts began to drift. He hadn’t really had time to mourn his parents yet; there had been too much going on; too many changes. He had cried for his mother, at her grave. He had longed for her, missed her so intensely he had thought his heart would break and kill him. Yet it had not, and in the months his father had been away, he had come to accept the loss of her but everything else he had lost; his father, his home…He had not had time to mourn his father yet. Almost as if he did not mourn his father he was not really gone. He was still out there, avenging his mother. Yet he was dead. His father’s sword, lying in his bedchamber, was evidence of it. Now as he sat alone, the only sound people moving about somewhere else in the palace, the sounds low and strangled, he allowed himself to cry for losing not only a mother and a father but also a home and all he had ever known.

It could have been forever but it was probably only a few minutes before he pulled himself together, wiped the tears away with the back of his hand and erased all traces of them, knowing he would most likely never cry for them again. Determined not to sink into misery for the second time that day, he had gone hunting for Boromir and Faramir.

Asking various servants, he finally located them in the garden, Faramir playing catch with a butterfly and Boromir leaning against a tree, enjoying the last rays of the sun while still keeping a watchful eye on his brother.

Ignoring the tension that had been between them, Aragorn simply walked to the tree and sat down beside Boromir who immediately stiffened and the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees.

“We need to talk,” he said simply.

“We have nothing to talk about,” Boromir replied sharply, sitting up straight, one hand moving as if to his sword, only to recall both Aragorn and he didn’t carry swords when not practicing.

Seeing the movement, Aragorn recalled this also and was suddenly immensely happy for it, not knowing Boromir well enough to know if he had **that** much more control over his rage than his father, who seemed to give into his easily enough, for better or for worse. In fact, he didn’t know Boromir that well at all. The only one in this family who so far didn’t seem to have an anger management issue was Faramir. On the other hand, he seemed insecure enough that Aragorn was wondering if he might not one day ask permission if he could breathe. The longer he stayed here, the more he thanked the Gods for granting him two loving parents; towards each other and him. He had never doubted he could do literally anything and that his parents would always protect him, love him, and be there for him no matter what; like he felt parents should be.

“I happen to think you trying to cut my head off earlier today constitutes a need to talk,” Aragorn said calmly. He had never had much of a temper; growing up in the forest where you had to be still and calm to catch the beauty and life around you, he had had no reason to. He recalled only two real arguments he had had; one where he had said something unkind to his mother for her making him do a chore he did not want to and his father had demanded he apologize, and the other had been between his father and him on some matter which had seemed so important then, but which he now no longer recalled.

“I never try; I do,” Boromir said arrogantly, and in that moment he was the perfect image of his father from the coldness in his eyes to the snarl around his lips. “If I wanted you dead you would be.”

There was enough deadly promise in Boromir’s voice to make a lesser man back down, but Aragorn steadily held his ground. His body was ready to spring into a fight at any moment, but he made sure not to reveal that fact. “You have killed so many that a life has become so unimportant?” He asked casually, knowing full well that at twelve, Boromir had not yet been in any battles.

Boromir had to fight to keep an angry blush from showing. “What do you want?”

  
“I thought you did not wish to speak to me.”

“If it gets you to leave I am willing to do a great many things,” Boromir sneered.

Aragorn was angry with himself for feeling more hurt over the younger man’s harsh tone than he thought he should. Boromir wasn’t his brother, he sternly reminded himself, and it did not look as if he wished to be. Yet still he could not let go of his childhood dream to have siblings, brothers, with whom he could share joy and sorrows. This desire was stronger than his reasoning and he was determined to try and make this work; to create a new kind of family here.

“Earlier today,” Aragorn began more softly, keeping his face and eyes open and honest. “I did not wish to disgrace you in front of your father.”

Boromir seemed stunned that he had dared address the issue between them. “Yet you did,” he said coldly, regaining his composure.   
  


“I **am** older than you and thus have more experience in most matters. No one expects…” Aragorn began reasonably.

“ **He** does!” Boromir interrupted strongly and Aragorn knew perfectly well who ‘he’ was.

“Your father sets unreasonable demands,” Aragorn said frankly. He had been here all of two days, but Denethor did not hide his temper or this; that his sons had to be perfect in every way and for some reason that Aragorn had still to figure out, then Faramir had apparently from birth already failed Denethor although the poor lad had yet to realise it and accept he could just as well give up trying. Aragorn had a nasty suspicion Faramir would never give up trying to reach for what he could never have, but would die if need be in his attempts to please his father.

Some of the anger left Boromir and he fell back against the tree, his back touching the hard bark. “Mayhap it is I who cannot perform the duties of a son and not my father who does not perform the duties of a parent.”

“Preparing your sons for warfare is one thing; **leading** one against them is something else,” Aragorn said quietly.

They sat in a silence, which was both comfortable and shattering.

“You can never be what you wish to be,” Boromir said softly, his eyes straight ahead on the statues in the garden, keeping an eye out on a laughing and running Faramir who was still chasing butterflies and playing with the flowers, trees, and animals of the garden.

“What is it you think I wish to be?” Aragorn asked surprised, silently praying that Boromir did not share his father’s fear that he wished to steal Gondor from them. If the time was right it might be an issue, but it was not so at this time and Aragorn saw no reason to make it into one. All things aside, then the Stewards had lead Gondor well and Denethor had done a great job keeping Mordor at bay. Gondor was the last defence, bordering Mordor. It would always take the worst blow of the evil nation’s wrath. That Gondor was still here, still held together after all these years, was no thanks to the line of Kings but for the sake of the stewards, and Aragorn was not blind to this fact.

“My friend, my brother, and my King,” Boromir said frankly, turning to look at him, his eyes daring him to speak against him.

“Let us start with friends,” Aragorn offered, still not sure himself what he wished to do with the aspect of himself which demanded he took Gondor’s throne in his forefather’s image. If the time was right his father had said. How was he to know? All he knew was that the time was most certainly not right now. Denethor might be an uncomfortable man, but Aragorn had no doubt that he had large power at court and over his country and that he was the rock keeping the nation together. As a man who had always been at war, mayhap it was not so strange that he had ended up being at war in all aspects of his life; anger was the last defence before despair and a much more useful, yet devastating, emotion.

Boromir gave him a reassuring look but he shook his head, looking a bit regretful and sad. “You may not wish to be my enemy but simply by virtue of being here, my father will have made you into just that.”

  
“I have already told you that I do not seek Denethor’s praise,” Aragorn said, leaning a bit closer to Boromir to make him understand how important it was to him not to face years of loneliness in this place. He was not sure he could handle that. Then better to run off to the forest he knew and loved and be alone there.

“I do,” Boromir admitted bluntly, “and because of this, we will be in a contest whether you wish to or not. A contest I cannot lose.”

Before Aragorn could reply, Boromir had risen and the frown on his face disappeared as he reached his brother, bending on one knee before him to admire the butterfly the boy held carefully in his hand, taking great care not to injure it.

There had to be a way to become friends with Boromir, Aragorn thought, for he knew Boromir was the only one who might befriend him; if he did meet others from the court, they would all have been told he was not the Steward’s son, but a boy from the forest taken in on the Steward’s mercy and would thus avoid him, finding him unworthy.

He had never realized how much he did not wish to be alone. He didn’t need a lot of people, but growing up with his parents as isolated as he had, then he needed those one or two close friends to get by.

Aragorn observed Boromir with his brother, his gentle touch and his encouraging words and he couldn’t help but smile, amazed by how the man could shift personality so completely. This side of Boromir was what gave him hope; there had to be a way to reach him; to make him see that he was not a threat to him. That he did not need to fight everyone; least of all him. 


	8. An Oath Of Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Bormir become friends

## Chapter 8: An Oath Of Friendship

Aragorn wasn’t quite sure how to get a handle on Boromir or the situation and so remained seated, leaning against the tree as he watched Boromir and Faramir walk the garden. It occurred to him that Boromir only ever seemed to relax and let his guard down when he was around his brother.

“If a mask is worn for too long it stops being a mask,” Aragorn mumbled to himself. He sighed deeply and rested against the tree, letting the back of his head touch the bark.

What should he do? What could he do? Faramir would never come to him without his brother’s permission and he would not try to come between the brothers. Boromir however, had to have his father’s love and Aragorn could understand that. It was easy as a stranger, not a son, to think both boys should simply ignore their father and fulfil their own expectations and not his, but it was not that easy when emotions got involved. The boys had no mother and as far as he could tell, no other immediate family; their father was all they had.

Maybe Denethor could change. He hadn’t really given the man much of a chance as a man and a father, separating these things from Denethor’s role as a leader, a role Denethor played masterfully enough. He had to remember that Denethor was not his own father; he could not expect another man to live up to the high standards of honour and duty he felt his father had. Of course he was biased on this, but he felt his father was a much better leader of men despite having lived so isolated for years. He had softened command with concern and had given explanations as to why he was issuing orders; having taught his son to do likewise.

A servant entering the garden broke Aragorn’s train of thought and he followed the man’s movements. He went to Boromir, bowed for him and said, “The Steward requests your presence.”

  
The air was suddenly tense and Faramir looked with sad eyes on Boromir, clearly unhappy at losing his brother now that they were just having fun chasing insects in the garden. 

Boromir seemed slightly reluctant, frowning but then pulled himself together and smiled down at Faramir, “I shall return shortly, little one,” he promised and Faramir nodded, clearly knowing he was not going to return to play more with him today.

“Yes,” Faramir agreed, attempting a smile. Boromir looked from Faramir to Aragorn, and Aragorn held his gaze, knowing what he wanted to ask, ‘take care of Faramir’ but this time he was not going to be the one to back away. Denethor, he was beginning to see, abhorred any show of kindness, for he seemed to confuse it with weakness, and Aragorn saw little reason for Boromir not to believe likewise, with the main exception of Faramir and somewhat more control, when this was all he had ever known since birth.

Of course Aragorn would keep an eye on Faramir, but Boromir was going to have to ask. Their gazes were caught in a staring match which neither wished to break. After almost a minute of silent staring had gone by, Aragorn realized Boromir would probably stubbornly refuse to back down until his father’s command had to drag him away. _Is everything a competition to you?_ Aragorn wondered and allowed his own gaze to touch Faramir with a smile instead. Maybe it wasn’t arrogance; maybe it was just survival, but as Aragorn had tried to say earlier; backing down was not always a sign of weakness and defeat.

Only when Aragorn had broken the stare did Boromir do likewise. He stroked Faramir’s hair and without another word he left the garden with the servant, not giving either Faramir or Aragorn another look.

Aragorn remained in the garden for some time yet, going to Faramir and letting him show him various things with obvious pride and joy to the young boy. Going back to the palace, it felt natural to take the Faramir’s hand but the touch seemed to startle and surprise Faramir. Afraid he had done something wrong; after all he had never had any siblings, Aragorn had drawn back, but then Faramir had shyly taken his hand back and hadn’t released it until they reached the kitchen. Aragorn was to move past, but he noticed Faramir’s longing stare and smiled.

“Shall we go in and greet Ivea?” Aragorn asked warmly, referring to the kind female cook he had been introduced to at breakfast and who had also made them lunch.

Faramir nodded and smiled. “Yes, please.”

“Come then.”

They went to the kitchen and Ivea, a large but kind hearted woman with a round and friendly face around forty, gave Faramir a newly baked cookie and lifted him to seat on the kitchen counter.

“How was your day?” Ivea asked Aragorn with a friendly smile as she went back to her cooking while speaking.

“Probably not nearly as stressful as yours,” he said honestly and she smiled and beamed at his implication that he knew her work was hard and often stressful as she helped organize the entire kitchen. It was a large kitchen here but most of her people were out back. There was a small table, some chairs, and a small stove here in front with a door leading to the back of the kitchen. Out here in front was where the steward’s sons, and now also Aragorn, ate when they were not required in the dining room and thus only Ivea worked here.

“I normally do not gossip,” Ivea said, growing serious. “But you are such a fine young lad so I will tell you this,” she looked left and right to assure herself they were alone in the kitchen before she went on, “be mindful of the Steward, for whispers claim he is wary of you.”

“Of me?” Aragorn asked surprised. “Why?”

“I do not know,” she admitted.

Aragorn frowned, knowing full well why the Steward did not trust him; because of his royal lineage. It was not him, but his line; it was not who he was now that Denethor worried for, but what he might become.

He laid a kind hand on Ivea’s arm. “Thank you.”

She was to comment when a sudden sound from Faramir made both turn. He had tears in his eyes, half of the cookie was on the floor and he had his hands to his throat and mouth, looking pained and in distress.

“Oh my!” Ivea yelled and moved towards him but Aragorn was faster, recalling his lessons of healing and forcing his fears to the back of his mind, taking control of the situation.

“Up with it!” Aragorn demanded as he picked Faramir up, took a strong grip around his chest from behind and pressed hard upwards, trying to get the boy to cough whatever was about to choke him up again.

“Help! Lord Faramir needs help!” Ivea’s voice became more and more distant and Aragorn knew she had gone to get help.

Faramir weakly fought Aragorn’s hold, gasping for breath, his eyes glimmering with tears. Just as Boromir had reached the door to the kitchen, Aragorn gave Faramir one hard squeeze more and the piece of cookie that had got stuck in his throat was spit out from his mouth, and Faramir went limp from the strain in Aragorn’s arms.

“Fara!” Boromir yelled horrified as soon as he saw the scene and ran in, tearing Faramir from Aragorn’s embrace with such brutality that he pushed the older boy to the floor.

Aragorn lost his balance and fell to the floor, barely having the presence of mind after what had just happened, after the adrenaline was pumping through him, to brace the fall.

Boromir held Faramir close to him but when Faramir tried to hide his tears and his face by his brother’s shoulder Boromir took a hand under his chin, eyeing his face left and right, a wild and heartbreakingly concerned look on his face as he searched his brother for injures. When he found none but Faramir still looked shocked and still couldn’t stop crying he turned to Aragorn.

“What did you do to him?” Boromir accused, his eyes shooting lightning so intensely at Aragorn that it seemed strong enough to kill him on the spot. “If he is hurt I swear I will…”

“Strider saved your brother, me lord,” Ivea said in awe as she too entered the kitchen and went and offered Aragorn a hand up which he took, now standing face to face with Boromir.

“What do you mean?” Some of the anger had died but the suspicion had not.

“Your brother was choking. My father has taught me the art of healing,” Aragorn said quietly.

Boromir went very still, letting Faramir hide his head by his shoulder, his arms around his neck.

“The hands of a King are the hands of a healer,” he said softly, very softly, his eyes shining in a way Aragorn could not even start to understand.

He nodded graceful acceptance of the old phrase, blushing faintly at the depth of emotions in Boromir’s face.

Without another word, Boromir turned his back to Aragorn to put Faramir on the table, his legs dangling over the edge, and checked him over for injuries, trying to be gentle but ignoring Faramir’s desire to continue to hide at his shoulder

“Let me see,” Aragorn requested softly and Boromir moved a bit as Aragorn moved to his side and ran his hands over the young boy. Faramir flickered slightly as Aragorn’s fingers touched his ribs where he had held him up to get him to spit out the piece of food that had been stuck in his throat.

“Is he unhurt? Shall I call a healer?” Boromir frowned in concern and Aragorn couldn’t help but smile a bit. Boromir would make a wonderful father for fact was he was already a father; probably had been from the time Faramir had been born.

“His ribs are merely bruised. If you allow I shall wrap them. In a few days the bandage can be removed,” Aragorn said, turning to Boromir.

Boromir looked relieved beyond words. “Ar…“ he began but was interrupted.

“Lord Boromir,” a servant respectfully said from the kitchen door. “The Steward requests your presence at once.”

  
”Can he never give us a moment’s peace?” Boromir mumbled under his breath, and Aragorn realised Boromir found interacting with his father almost as painful as Faramir did. Boromir’s eyes were torn and pained when he looked at Aragorn and he took pity on him.

“If you trust me to do so I shall bandage your brother and stay with him till you return or we are called to dinner.”

  
Boromir nodded his thanks, relief clear in his eyes. His attention returned to Faramir who was still too shocked to speak. He smiled warmly and gave his younger brother a warm but light embrace to make sure he did not touch his bruises and hurt him further.

“Strider will take care of you till I return,” Boromir said softly before he turned to Aragorn. “You saved my brother’s life,” he said strongly, gratitude and a million other emotions Aragorn couldn’t decipher on his face. “I owe you a life.”

Aragorn smiled warmly. “Your friendship will do.”

Boromir reached out his hand as if they had first met, and in a way, they had. Gone were the anger and the resentment from Boromir’s eyes; they were now kind and open. “You have that and more,” he vowed.

“Thank you,” Aragorn said heartfelt as he took his hand in a warrior’s grip, hand on wrist. He had quickly discovered being totally alone was something he did very poorly and was grateful to find he needn’t be for the rest of his years here.

“My life is still yours and I vow to one day pay you back in kind,” Boromir said seriously and Aragorn was impressed by the young man’s sense of honour as their hands fell apart.

Before Aragorn could reply, Boromir had left after giving Faramir one last smile. Aragorn looked after Boromir for a few seconds, thoughtfully. There was differently more to Boromir than met the eye; in fact the best part of him was the part he kept hidden the most. Interesting. He was now sure he could strike up a friendship with this young man and by implication, Faramir as well.

“Come, let me tend to you,” Aragorn said warmly to Faramir and picked him up, going to the room in which Ivea said there were some bandages.

As the evening went on and Denethor did not show up, Aragorn’s earlier thoughts about giving Denethor a second chance in his role as father disappeared in anger. By now, Boromir would have told him what had happened after Ivea’s call had brought him running from his father’s room. Faramir could have died and Denethor did not even drop by. A dark thought entered his mind; would Denethor resent Boromir’s love and protectiveness of Faramir and see it as weakness? Probably. Would that mean he would be angry with Boromir now for running to Faramir’s aid? Angry with all of them for that matter?

It made no sense at all if he was, but recalling the cold look in the Steward’s eyes, he shuttered when he thought that in a twisted kind of way it might just make perfect sense to Denethor.


	9. Torn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denethor sees enemies everywhere and Aragorn feels the full force of that

## Chapter 9: Torn

Aragorn was beginning to hate the evening meal as much as he could feel Faramir and Boromir did. Unlike them though, it was not nervousness or a fear of displeasing Denethor that made the meals seem long and exhausting, but the word and mind games that Denethor, in his opinion, seemed to play with his sons. His desire to protect and defend the younger boys came into conflict with his teachings of respect and good manners and the two contradicting rules in his head, act or do nothing, were confusing.

Aragorn and Faramir had not seen Boromir again before dinner. Aragorn had bandaged Faramir’s wounds and had then told him a tale of Elves in front of the library’s fireplace. The young boy had calmed down and no one would know he had had a trying ordeal today if not for his occasional wince and holding a hand to the bandage covering his ribs under his shirt.

When Aragorn and Faramir had come to the dinner hall, Denethor and Boromir had already been there, Boromir looking like he had just had an argument with his father, for his right cheek was stinging red and he was barely holding back tears, biting his lip so brutally to prevent himself from doing so it had begun to bleed.

Sensing the tension in the room, Faramir had tried to disappear and the act seemed a good choice, so Aragorn tried to mimic it. When they had seated themselves, neither had spoken but neither had Denethor or Boromir, making the dining room echo with tense nothingness.

As the meal proceeded, Faramir and Aragorn whispered a few words to each other, mostly about the food, but Boromir and Denethor spoke not at all. Aragorn wanted to let Boromir know he wasn’t alone in this, but the stubborn set of Boromir’s jaw and the hard flint in his eyes told Aragorn any words or touches would be taken very poorly at this time.

“I heard you managed to embarrass me today, again,” Denethor’s harsh voice broke the silence, his eyes cold on Faramir, shocking the three boys, though Boromir managed to control the jerk his body wished to make and continued eating though his muscles tensed.

“I am sorry, father,” Faramir said softly, tears in his eyes but he fought bravely to keep them from escaping. Aragorn folded his hands in his lap, making his fingernails bite so deeply into his right palm they drew blood just to focus on something else than his desire to come with a biting comeback. He eyed Boromir and could see he too was fighting to hold himself back, but whatever Denethor had told him before they had arrived had been effective; he was still trying to recuperate from it.

“What is that, boy? Are you crying?” Denethor asked coldly, disgust in his voice. The words **did** make the tears fall from Faramir’s eyes as he lost his fragile control.

“I am sorry,” Faramir mumbled sadly and Aragorn had had it. Ignoring Denethor, he took a comforting arm around Faramir, letting him seek comfort by his chest.

“Get your hands off him!” Denethor snapped.

“Leave them be, for pity’s sake,” Boromir mumbled but the protest was subdued.

“Stay out of this,” Denethor said, barely glancing at him, his attention on Aragorn, his eyes pointing at where Aragorn had his arm around Faramir.

_He **is** your steward and your benefactor. He may not have earned your obedience but you are still honour bound to give it to him, _Aragorn reminded himself and reluctantly drew back from Faramir, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze as he did so.

“He did not embarrass you, Sire,” Aragorn said clearly, turning his eyes to Denethor, not letting himself be cowered by the man’s strong and angry stare. Denethor’s control was mostly in the heart and minds of his sons; because of their love for him. Aragorn had no such ties and whether Denethor played mind games intentionally or not then they would work much less effectively on Aragorn, who felt no emotional ties to the steward except mild gratitude for his help. “He was about to choke.”

“And?” Denethor said with a raised eyebrow, making Aragorn looked shocked at him.

“He could have died!” Aragorn said, more loudly than he had intended.

Denethor’s face became shadowed with fury. He had to gain control over the boy now, before he grew and it would be too late. “It was not the event but how it was handled I disapproved of,” He explained shortly before he added with a dangerous edge, “Is this how you address your steward and the master of the house you live in?”

Aragorn felt embarrassment colour his cheeks but was too angry to care. However, he knew Denethor was right in this. “I apologize for my sharp tone, Sire,” he forced out through clenched teeth, suppressing an urge to say or do something even worse to him. He was well aware of Faramir’s frightened stare at him and was grateful Boromir was not looking at him but eyeing his food though not eating, as if he knew well this humiliation became worse with an audience.

“You do not seem sorry at all,” Denethor observed, his eyes two dark poles of anger. “Come to me, boy,” he added when Aragorn didn’t know how to respond to that for he was right; he was not sorry at all.

_Boy?_ Aragorn’s face flushed bright red with shame, humiliation, and rage. Whatever little kindness he had felt he owed Denethor as a father figure was gone now. He fought to get his emotions under control, not sure what Denethor would demand of him before he left his chair and walked to stand beside Denethor’s chair.

“Yes…Sire?” He made himself add, trying to put his emotions in a place where they would not disturb him. He knew he had been lucky having parents as he did; caring and kind. He knew discipline and corporeal punishment was not just accepted; it was normal. Yet he had never been punished like that. A guilt trip, a yell, yes but that had been the worst.

Denethor looked up at him from his chair, his half smile predatorily, his eyes said ‘I am going to win this!’ yet Aragorn was not sure what they were fighting over. Control? Boromir? Faramir? Gondor?

“Do you see yourself higher than the steward?” his mild tone was in contrast to the situation and Aragorn knew this was going to end badly.

_Don’t think, just do_ , Aragorn said to himself. 

“No, Sire.”

“Then mayhap your position ought to reflect that.”

  
It took him only two seconds to figure out what Denethor wanted and this time the surprise, shock and disbelief was clear in his eyes.

“Father, mayhap it would be…” Boromir began, looking at his father and Aragorn with a worried expression.

“Silence!” Denethor thundered and Boromir fell silent at once, his eyes dropping back to his plate.

_Just get it over with_ , Aragorn said to himself. It was not like he had never knelt before. You always knelt before your ruler, though never in situations like this. Still, refusing to back down, Aragorn held Denethor’s gaze as he sank to one knee beside his chair.

“Was there something I could do for you, Sire?” he asked with just enough bite to make the words this side of sarcastic but not enough to be insulting.

Without warning Denethor’s hand made contact with his cheek and sent his head flying to the side and his ears ringing. “You do better in remembering your place or I shall be forced to show it to you,” he said coldly.

His skin was stinging and itching but it was the shock that had left him momentarily speechless. He had hit him! No one had ever laid hand on him before. “Yes, Sire,” he got out, the shock and not the pain making his voice seem soft and subdued.

“Since you have time to insult me you are obviously not very hungry, so for three days you will skip dinner.” He seemed to consider for a moment before he added, “Faramir as well.”

  
“Sire, Faramir did nothing to insult you,” Boromir broke in while Faramir just watched the display nervously, his hands shaking in fear in his lap.

“The fault was mine, Sire,” Aragorn hastily backed Boromir up. In his opinion there had been only one fault here; Denethor’s suspicious and paranoid ways, but he was not saying that out loud.

“Very well. Only you then,” Denethor gave in and sent his youngest son a cold look. “He would probably have been too weak to take it anyway.”

  
Not sure what to say to that, thank you, seemed a stupid thing to say and might make him change his mind so he decided to play it safe on all fronts, afraid that if Denethor did not know Faramir was Boromir’s - and his own - weakness at this time, he was not giving the information up willingly. “May I return to my seat, Sire?”

Denethor looked down at him as if he had forgotten he was kneeling at his chair. “You may.” He seemed disinterested now, as if his mind was far away, on a whisper or a thought no one else was noticing.

Grateful, Aragorn rose and tried to walk with as much dignity as he could muster back to his chair, trying to avoid the sympathetic looks of the servants and the palace guards standing near the door who had been trying to avoid looking at him during all this, but since they had to look straight ahead, had been unable to do so entirely.

He had hoped to be ordered away from the table to avoid sitting through the rest of the meal, but Denethor seemed as if he knew this, for they finished the meal, Aragorn eating plenty in hopes it would last for the 3 days he was not eating. He wondered if dinner meant only evening meal or all meals. He hoped it meant only evening meal so he could eat more at lunchtime.

Finally they were all allowed to leave and they gratefully did so. Aragorn had sensed Boromir was still rattled from his own argument with his father, so Aragorn picked up a still shaking Faramir and they left as quickly as they could.

When they were on the stairs walking to their rooms, Aragorn eyed Boromir worriedly. He would be spotting an even more impressive mark on his cheek than Aragorn, and Aragorn decided Denethor must have hit him more than once.

“Do you wish to hold him?” He asked softly, offering Faramir back to his brother in the hopes it would cheer up both brothers. Faramir was still shaking and clinging to Aragorn’s neck as if for dear life, now having allowed the silent sobs to become full tears.

Boromir shook his head. “I do not trust myself right now,” he said quietly.

“Temper?” Aragorn guessed and hugged Faramir as close to him as he dared without bruising him through the bandage.

“Yeah,” Boromir smiled half heartedly and with some embarrassment at him.

“What happened?”  
  


Boromir looked uncomfortable. “The usual.” At Aragorn’s look he elaborated, “He thinks I pamper Faramir, acts like a woman in my concern.” He blushed deep red at this, clearly finding this comment deeply insulting.

“Do not listen to him. Concern is for all; not just women,” Aragorn said reassuringly. “If love is not worth fighting for then nothing is.”  
  


“I guess,” Boromir said thoughtfully but Aragorn knew 12 years of upbringing could not be changed overnight.

“Whatever your father called you; weak, disgrace, embarrassment, whatever words he might have chosen then they are not true,” Aragorn went on as he entered Faramir’s room to help him to bed, Boromir silently following. “You are a dutiful son and a skilled student. You will become a great warrior and a fine man.”  
  


Aragorn turned to look at Boromir as he remained silent, having now placed Faramir under the covers after he had helped him change into his nightshirt. The young boy was exhausted but managed to capture the nearest of Boromir’s hands who allowed the touch but seemed torn and pained about it. “He said my care for Faramir will be his undoing,” Boromir said agonized.

Aragorn put a calming hand on his shoulder, remaining sitting on Faramir’s bedside. “His undoing will be if you withdraw your love,” Aragorn said softly as Faramir was drifting off to sleep.

Boromir looked down at Faramir who looked even younger and vulnerable in the adult size bed he was laying in and his expression softened. He bent and planted a soft kiss to Faramir’s forehead before he stood once more. “I will go for a ride,” he told Aragorn who nodded.

“I will watch over your brother.”  
  


Boromir nodded his thanks, his eyes still deeply troubled as he walked to the door, letting his hand fall from Faramir’s grip.

“Boromir?”  
  


Boromir turned back to look at Aragorn sitting at Faramir’s bedside. “Yes?”  
  


“Your father’s approval and your brother’s love should not be mutually exclusive and you should not have to remain in the middle between them,” Aragorn said quietly into the stillness of the room.

“You ask me to choose between a brother and a father, and that I cannot do,” Boromir whispered agonized.

“Then the burden you bear will never lessen,” Aragorn warned, his eyes and voice filled with compassion.

“Mayhap,” Boromir agreed softly, pained. “Yet I have no other choice.”  
  


Boromir left the room and Aragorn knew he needed to try and reclaim a sense of peace in the wildness of an evening ride over the hills.

Aragorn turned back to Faramir and with a warm smile stroked the boy’s hair away from his sleeping head so it would not fall into his eyes.

“There may come a day where you will have to choose, whether you wish to or not,” he whispered softly, knowing Boromir could not hear him and even if he could, he would not have wanted to.

With a last look at Faramir to make sure he was sleeping peacefully, Aragorn went to his room, letting the rooms connecting Faramir’s room to his through Boromir’s stand wide open so he could hear him should he call. Before he went to bed, Aragorn looked out through his window at the stars blinking down from the sky and in their cold and silent beauty, he found a sense of balance once more after the evening’s shock. He had often looked at the stars with his parents and they had told him that they would one day be watching him from up there. He believed they did so now and he smiled fondly up at them before he went to bed. His dreams were peaceful this night, filled with stars and light, making his lips curve as he imagined it was his mother’s soft love and his father’s protection that guided his dreams.


	10. As The Years Go By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next four years were marked by growth but little change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter for this one update. Hope this large update can help someone through these times. Be kind, consider each other and no hoarding!

## Chapter 10: As The Years Go By

The next four years were marked by growth but little change. What change did occur was for the worse. Mordor grew stronger, Gondor fell deeper and deeper towards despair, making Denethor do likewise and put even more pressure on Boromir’s shoulders as if he expected the young man to save the old kingdom single-handed. The White Tree of Gondor standing outside the palace remained bare and the relationship between Gondor and Rohan grew strained. There had been only two visits between the two kingdoms in the four years; one where Denethor had travelled to Rohan with Boromir and Faramir, and one where the King of Rohan, his son, and his nephew and niece, Eomer and Eowyn, had travelled to Gondor. Aragorn had not been invited to Rohan or to the feasts or the meetings when the Rohan royal family had been to Gondor since he was not a part of the Steward’s family. Though he had never been introduced to Rohan’s royalty, when they had been in Minas Tirith, Aragorn had spotted them from his chambers. Boromir had told him what had happened in his absence and had spoken mostly about Eomer because the young man had been close to his age. Like Aragorn, he was only a few years older than Boromir, and they had spoken well together. Eomer was a rather quiet man but strong in body and mind and was clearly very protective of his sister who was around Faramir’s age. Faramir and Eowyn had played well together but since Faramir was the second son it was Boromir whom Denethor and Eowyn’s uncle had talked about marrying her off to, despite Eomer’s great protests. Not because he disliked Boromir but because he did not feel it fair to do this to his beloved sister.

When the alliance between Rohan and Gondor had collapsed so had any marriage plans to Boromir’s relief, for though Eowyn was a sweet child he had never cared to take her as a bride. The thought of her serving in that capacity, when she at the time of the debate had been only a child, had been disquieting to him. Her closeness and similarity to Faramir had made Boromir connect her to him in his mind and heart; a sibling, and not a potential lover.

Boromir had lived up to his word and he now counted Aragorn among his friends, trusting only him to guard over Faramir. He helped the older boy in any way he could; with clothes, occasionally a little money, and whatever else he might need without Aragorn ever having to ask for it. However, the years had taken their toll on Boromir and he smiled even less than he had when Aragorn had first arrived. The demands on him grew, for each day, failure had a higher and higher price, and his childhood ended before his time. Though he remained Faramir’s guardian and protector, and a friend to Aragorn, he was alone; neither Aragorn nor Faramir shared the burdens which had been laid upon him.

The pressure and demands on Boromir had him grow colder and colder, having to fight his way through. Only the sight of his brother could make him smile, and if Aragorn was lucky he would be granted a small smile and a friendly hand on his shoulder in passing as well.

His constant lessons, especially physical ones, had made Boromir grow into a handsome, tall, and fit young man. While Aragorn had outgrown him in height and was as fit and muscular as Boromir, he was of more delicate and slimmer built and his beauty was not as roughened and hard-edged as Boromir’s.

Denethor’s disappointment with Faramir did not lessen with the years and despite Aragorn’s urges that he try not to take his father’s disinterest to heart, Faramir still worked as hard as he could to please his father. Aragorn knew that if it was hurting him to see Faramir’s hopeful face crumble into pain and despair, as Denethor gave him scorn and not a kind word in sight, it had to be breaking Boromir’s heart.

Faramir had grown into a slim eight-year-old boy with fair hair and a sweet face, his eyes endlessly expressive and forever seeking and exploring. The family resemblance to Boromir grew with each day yet still Faramir’s beauty promised, like his behaviour, to be softer, milder, and kinder than his brother’s. They were like day and night; one all darkness and the other all light. Yet still it was the dark side which got all the attention from the same sun they both craved so dearly to reach: Denethor.

Boromir on his part was getting better at remaining seemingly emotionally unaffected by the sorrow around him, only letting his emotions shine through when it came to three things; Gondor, Faramir, and Aragorn. Yet despite his brave front, Boromir was still only 16 and though Aragorn did not need a protector, Boromir would sometimes play the role and try to intervene between Denethor and him.

As the years had passed, Aragorn’s conflicts with Denethor had become more and more frequent. As Aragorn’s will and strength grew, Denethor tried his best to break both. Unlike Faramir, whom Denethor would more often than not hurt with words, his conflict with Aragorn had developed from their first confrontation; words had little effect on Aragorn and thus Denethor would often resort to humiliation and physical punishment, often of a milder kind where the humiliation was worse than the pain. Aragorn might have grown to resent Denethor but he also knew the man was neither stupid nor evil; he simply felt this was the right way, maybe the only way, to save the country he loved and to raise the family he, in his own way, loved. However, that did not mean that Aragorn did not feel furious when he thought about it. He felt certain Denethor knew Faramir would rather be beaten within an inch of his life than to hear such uncaring and disappointed words from his father and he was equally sure he knew that Aragorn would rather face any beating or hear any unkind words instead of being treated like a child, talked about as if he was not there, ordered to kneel and apologize for real or imagined wrongs Denethor felt he had done.

Though Aragorn knew Denethor was not much worse than many other parents, then in the face of his own parents, mild mannered and loving, the shock seemed even greater. Honour was now the only thing that kept him here; honour, and need for he had nowhere else to go and to be honest he did not wish to leave Faramir and Boromir here to face this alone. 

Aragorn and Faramir would often spent hours together talking about the Elves and their culture that Faramir adored, while Boromir was off to whatever special training Denethor had given him. Boromir’s need to excel, however, was not always enough when the challenges put before him kept getting harder and harder. With a stubbornness and pride matched by few, Boromir would force himself way past his limits. Aragorn had made it an almost nightly habit to help Boromir into bed after physical exercise lessons that left him so exhausted he would almost pass out in Aragorn’s arms as soon as he had returned to the privacy of their floor.

While it was true that direct punishment was mostly given to Faramir and himself, Boromir did not have it easier because of that. While Faramir and Aragorn received a solid academic education, Boromir’s education became less academic and more warrior orientated. He trained every day with lessons of endurance, strength and other qualities a good warrior leader needed. An endurance test could be to leave him standing out in the courtyard with his arms stretched out to either side, a bucket of water in each hand. He then had to remain standing like this till his teacher, a cruel man Aragorn was glad to say Faramir and he worked little with, seemed to think it was enough. If he failed a lesson for example: he lowered his arms in the exercise mentioned before, he would be punished in various ways from a solid caning to running for miles. Added to that would come his father’s displeasure and disappointment which would hurt Boromir worse than any physical punishment.

In Denethor’s defence, Boromir’s extensive training was working; he was one of the best warriors in the kingdom and his skills matched if not surpassed Aragorn’s and at times Boromir would manage to defeat him during sword practice. Aragorn didn’t mind; his opinion of what it meant to lose and what it meant to be honourable was not the same as Boromir’s.

The one person Aragorn had drifted closest to was Faramir. This was likely because they were both seen as outsiders, worthy of as little attention as possible and as time passed they shared more and more interests. Faramir had grown into a warm, curious, and dreamy young boy, which made him easy for Aragorn to connect with. Their rapport came natural and easy; there were no barriers or competition between them. Their main difference remained that Aragorn, thanks to the ever strong and present memory of his parents’ love, was sure of himself and his beliefs, whereas Faramir was often insecure and hesitant, easily hurt by others’ lack of interest or scorn.

Despite the difference in their ages and Denethor’s different attitudes towards them, the three boys had managed to stick together. Their bond and defence of each other was breakable only by Denethor and only at their weakest hours. A shared secret between the boys had further strengthened their bond. The Wizard Gandalf the Grey had came to Gondor three years ago and had offered to tutor Aragorn and the sons of Denethor. However, the Steward would have none of it, accusing the wizard of wanting to turn his children against him. He had been ordered out of the city and while Boromir had not seen a reason to risk a terrible punishment by intervening, Aragorn had seen something in the wizard. It had been more than kindness, more than wisdom. This man was the key to something greater; Aragorn had been sure of it as soon as he had gazed into the wizard’s ageless eyes. He had managed to persuade Boromir to help him and they had managed to get a message to Gandalf proposing they met him in secret without the Steward’s presence and knowledge. The three boys had snuck out of the palace and had met him in a secluded place in town. Boromir had been convinced that Gandalf was no threat, but saw also little need for teaching from him for the teaching he offered the boys were not in war or warfare but in books, lore, and the various sciences. Both Aragorn and Faramir had been enchanted however, and it had been Faramir’s pleading that had made Boromir help come up with a plan so it would be possible for Gandalf to stay. He had somewhat reluctantly but masterfully arranged for a place the wizard could live in hiding. It would be impossible for Boromir himself to get away unnoticed from the palace continuously, but Aragorn and Faramir would sneak out and into town to receive teaching from Gandalf. Both had taken to their new teacher at once and had nothing but praise for the kind elderly wizard. Boromir would listen to their tales of their teaching with fond overbearing, still unconvinced that the teachings could be all that useful. Yet since it seemed to bring joy to both of them, Boromir didn’t say an unkind word about the unusual arrangement.

The four years had passed like this; with bright moments of friendship, brotherhood, and warmth growing between the three boys, creating between them a bond of shared circumstance, understanding, protectiveness, and loyalty. Then there had been days of struggle and pain where their loyalty to each other had been tested, their differences exposed, and frustration and despair had been like living things in the air around them. Still, they had always survived and been there for each other – even if first after the fact but many times that was also enough. Through both good and bad days, the shadow and demands of Denethor loomed over their relationship and growth. It was only when the Steward left the palace that the three boys felt a complete sense of peace.


	11. A Brother’s Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denethor order Faramir to kill his dog to prove his devotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Denethor plans to have Faramir's dog murdered! Where is John Wick when you need him?!

## Chapter 11: A Brother’s Soul

Today had looked like it would be a nice day; maybe this was why it was now turning into a nightmare. As usual they had awoken early and eaten breakfast in the kitchen together. After a history lesson for all three of them, fitting Boromir’s level of course, Boromir had gone to his fighting lessons while Aragorn and Faramir had sneaked off to see Gandalf. Thereafter they had returned and while Boromir was still doing exercises, Aragorn and Faramir had read up on Elven history, culture, and languages together. This was not a class they had since Denethor disliked the Elven race and all they stood for, finding them a weak race, but the two boys’ fascination for the Elven race had only risen as the years had passed and they loved to search the palace’s library for new information and tales.

The first sign the day would end badly had come when Denethor had ordered them all to the courtyard and had thereafter demanded that each boy showed him how far he was with his fencing lessons. Denethor had seated himself in a chair in one end of the yard and had ordered the boys to step forth and show him one at a time, starting with Boromir of course. It was only because Aragorn knew Boromir so well, had seen him at his best and he was the only one beside Faramir who had seen him at his worst; weak and exhausted after a particular painful lesson or punishment, that Aragorn had seen how stressed and nervous his father’s presence made Boromir. Despite this he did excellently with the moves he shown his father and was also complimented on them though, as they had all known he would, Denethor still had a few points of critique. Next were Aragorn who got off with a rain of sarcastic comments which Aragorn, after catching Faramir’s nervous look and Boromir’s raised brow, chose not to respond to but simply gave the required subdued reply Denethor was hoping to always get from him.

Faramir had been last and he was so nervous his sword was shaking slightly. At eight he had gotten a smaller and lighter sword made and had been practicing moves and parades. He had just begun when Denethor’s first comment had fallen, shaking him and bringing him off track. Boromir had tensed, his grip on his sword handle tightening till his knuckles were white and the grip painful, while Aragorn had his hands clashed behind his back, the nails of his left hand digging into his right hard enough to draw blood. Through it all neither of them offered advise or encouragement, knowing it’ll just make things worse.

Denethor’s sharp critique had kept coming but Faramir had managed to finish the series of moves he had begun on with tears frozen in his eyes. His nervousness had meant he had never done worse than he had today and Denethor was now shaking his head in displeasure.

“Do you think this was worth my time?” he asked coldly, displeasure in his eyes.

Boromir, who stood beside his father’s chair’s right side, and Aragorn, who stood beside Boromir, both tensed at Denethor’s words.

“No, Sir,” Faramir said softly as he had put his practice sword back in its scabbard, blushing in embarrassment and fighting to hold back tears. He knew well that he was standing at the centre of the courtyard; all who glanced down here from the palace’s windows, its doors or passed through here would at once focus on him.

“Mayhap it is your fascination for books, especially books of the Elven kind which keeps your focus of your assigned task,” Denethor suggested evenly.

Faramir shook his head, fighting to hide his shock and surprise that his father knew of Aragorn and his secret pastime. “No, Sir. I practice every day.”

  
”Obviously not intensely enough,” the steward remarked dryly, making Faramir lower his eyes to the ground in shame.

“He will do better next time. He is a quick student,” Boromir said softly.

“He is no longer a babe; he should not need your defence,” Denethor rebuked and Boromir fell silent.

“The study of other cultures and history is very important for any leader and brings a…” Aragorn began into the silence, unable to hold his peace when he saw how miserable and lonely Faramir looked.

“Hold your tongue!” Denethor ordered, giving him a stern look. “I have not forgotten it is you who encourages these nonsense ideas of his.”

Aragorn forced his lips tightly shut to prevent himself from commenting on this. Denethor looked at him still though, expecting a reply and Aragorn forced himself to say, “Yes, Sire.”  
  


Satisfied with the reply Denethor let him off the hook and return his gaze to Faramir. “If your books keeps you from your duties mayhap I should take them from you.”

Faramir looked shell-shocked at this. “No, please,” he pleaded.

“Father…” Boromir began, alarmed and Aragorn looked worried. The books were all Faramir had. They were his escape. He needed them. He needed them to get through.

Denethor turned to look at Boromir and Aragorn and saw how Aragorn had tensed up, his right hand’s palm now filled with bloody cuts from his nails, invisible to all but the distress in his face as well as the disgust was clear. “Strider, you wish to say something, my boy?” He asked pleasantly with an undercurrent of darkness.

Aragorn knew he was just using this tone, these words to rattle him and he was ashamed to admit it was working. At 18 he was a man in every way and to be addressed differently had his blood boiling in rage at the humiliation.

“The books are not the problem, Sire,” Aragorn forced himself to reply, not wishing to make a bad situation worse by adding the sharp comment about who exactly was the problem which was on his tongue.

Denethor turned back to look at Faramir. “Then what is the problem? What else do you spend your time doing instead of practicing?”

Faramir could not make himself meet his father’s look, trembling in fear and embarrassment at it all. “Ahh…”  
  


“Speak up, boy,” Denethor demanded sharply.

“I speak with A…Strider,” he quickly corrected himself at the last moment, mentioning Aragorn first because he knew that his father did not like Boromir to waste his time on him, “and Boromir.”

  
“What else?”  
  


“If there is time I sometimes go to see Kenó,” he said softly, his voice warm as he spoke of the small female black dog he had owned for two years now, a birthday present from Boromir. The name of the dog was Elfish of course and meant commander; perhaps a bit misleading for a dog as sweetly tempered as any could be. Denethor only ever gave gifts to his oldest son and though he should be used to it by own every year Faramir would still keep searching for a gift from him at his birthday. Boromir had gotten him the dog for his birthday, a puppy then, while Aragorn had given him a book of Elvish poetry; the first book he could call his own.

“Kenó?” Denethor raised an eyebrow at him. Despite Faramir’s attempts to tell his father about his everyday life, Denethor had early on shown he had no interest in this and saw only failure in what he attempted to do, so Faramir had stopped telling him

“My dog, Sir.”  
  


“Servant!” Denethor yelled to the nearest of the ones who had faithfully stood guard behind his chair, ready to fulfil the steward’s needs. “Go bring the dog out here.”

One of the servants bowed for him. “Yes, your lordship,” the servant said and was then gone.

Aragorn and Boromir shared worried looks and Faramir looked fearful and barely able to keep his tears back.

“It was no large mistake he did here today. With some practice…” Boromir began softly, placating.

“You cannot keep covering for him, son,” Denethor said with a stern but somewhat kind voice.

Aragorn was on the edge of commenting when the servant returned with Kanó walking beside him. When she saw Faramir she ran to him and Faramir smiled happily, knelt on one knee and embraced the dog as she came to him. He laughed a bit, trying to stay on his feet as the dog happily licked his face and waged her tail.

The sweet display had Boromir and Aragorn showing ghosts of smiles on their lips until Denethor’s dark voice broke in.

“Yes. I see this is what distracts you.“

“I do not play with her until after my lessons…Sir,” Faramir said, fear in his voice as he tried to put as much promise and honesty into his words as he could muster while hugging Kanó’s neck.

“I doubt that but even if that is so then it is always best to remove all distractions,” Denethor said, almost kindly.

“What do you mean?” Faramir asked alarmed, holding the dog even tighter, fear making his voice small but sharp.

“What will you do?” Aragorn added concerned.

Denethor ignored him and looked at Faramir. “This is your chance to prove yourself to me, my son,” he said kindly, his eyes almost pleading with his son not to fail him again.

Never had Denethor addressed him as ‘my son’ and it was obvious that being called so now filled Faramir with pride, warmth but also fear and insecurity.

“How?”

  
“Simple; take out your sword and kill the dog.”  
  


“Nooo!” Faramir protested, shaking his head and hugging Kanó tight.

“You cannot mean to…” Aragorn began, shocked and disbelieving.

“Silence!” Denethor thundered and rose, backhanding Aragorn so violently he had to take a step back to find his balance again. Boromir’s hand came forth behind Aragorn’s back to support him, the movement unnoticed by Denethor since Boromir kept his body, face and eyes glued on him and otherwise expressionless.

“Father. The dog was a gift from me,” Boromir began evenly, his voice as steady as if commenting on the weather but his green eyes were reflecting his torment.

“You should pick your gifts better in the future then.”

  
”Father, the dog means a lot to him,” Boromir tried again, some desperation sneaking into his voice.

Denethor gave him a piecing look, ignoring the small sobs of fear Faramir could not keep back. “And so?”

Aragorn had managed to get back to his earlier position beside Boromir and ignored the desire to run a hand over his injured cheek as well as the calming and supportive feeling Boromir’s rare touch brought him.

“So, I ask…I beg you not to kill it,” Boromir said softly, his eyes looking straight at his father, letting him see the plea in his eyes, the desperation.

  
“You beg?” Denethor spat the word out in disgust and looked very displeased. “A future steward should never beg.”

  
”My apologies,” Boromir said quietly, keeping his voice subdued, his eyes on Faramir and the pained but hopeful look he sent his older brother. There was the firm childish hero-worshipping faith in his eyes that said he was sure Boromir would make everything all right and it was cutting Boromir up inside thinking he might fail. He could not fail. He had to save Faramir; had to spare him this hurt.

  
“I will not kill the creature,” Denethor said and the three boys drew relieved breaths. Faramir smiled happily and hugged the dog close, his tears being wiped away by its fur.

Somehow sensing his distress Kanó seated herself beside Faramir, allowing the hug with no other movement but a wag of her tail.

“Thank…” Boromir began, his voice and eyes filled with gratitude, a smile spreading over his lips but Denethor interrupted him before he could continue.

“Faramir is going to kill it.”

  
”What?” Aragorn got out under his breath, the word a shocked grasp. He could not be serious! This would kill Faramir.

“No!” Faramir denied, shaking his head.

“Are you defying me, boy?” Denethor asked dangerously, his full attention on Faramir now and he took a threatening step towards him. Faramir tightened his grip on Kanó but remained where he was, pleading eyes on his father.

“No, no. I beg you. Please, please don’t make me kill Kanó,” he cried, his eyes and voice begging, his body shaking.

“But I do,” Denethor said darkly, having stopped halfway towards him, crossing his arms over his chest and looked down at him with impatience and expectation in his voice.

Faramir didn’t even have to think about it. With tears streaming his cheeks he sadly shook his head, feeling like he was being strangled, his voice filled with grief as he felt like he was being torn apart by his love for his father and his love for his ever loving and ever faithful dog. “I…I cannot.” His voice was a soft whisper but still audible.

  
“You disobey me?!” Denethor asked dangerously, taking a threading move towards Faramir who held on tight to Kanó, refusing to leave but his eyes were large and frightened, his heart rate skyrocketing. Aragorn thought he had never seen Denethor so dangerous; so dark before. With a sick feeling to his stomach Aragorn knew this was going to end very badly.

Before anyone else could do or say anything Boromir had drawn his sword and moved towards Faramir and the dog.

“Move. Now!” he ordered coldly and Faramir drew back from Kanó since this was his brother…his brother who would help him protect Kanó and he looked up at Boromir with faithful and expecting eyes filled with hope and trust.

“Faramir!” Aragorn yelled, knowing what Boromir would do. He ran to where Faramir was still standing beside Kanó and tried to drag him back towards the space beside Denethor’s empty chair where he had just stood.

“No.” Faramir shook his head, wanting to be with Kanó but sure Boromir had a plan.

Though not as far away from Kanó as Aragorn had wanted them to be it was far enough so he allowed Faramir to stop here, stopping with him.

“Turn around and close your eyes, little brother,” Boromir asked softly and Faramir gave him a strange look. The only emotions on Boromir’s face were a small encouraging smile. Faithful, sure Boromir would save him as always, save Kanó for him, Faramir did as bid and turned his back on him and Kanó. Aragorn stood behind him, also turned away from Boromir, and put an arm over Faramir’s chest, pressing him close in case he tried to turn around.

There was a sound of a sword moving through air, a sword moving through flesh and bone, a strangled noise of agony and then a loud noise when someone fell and hit the ground. Then nothing but silence.

“Kanó?” Faramir asked softly, frightened, one hand going to the arm Aragorn had around his chest as he tried to turn around, shaking off the shock and the fear the sounds had given him. This was his brother; his brother would save Kanó for him, so there was no need for his concern.

“Faramir, do not,” Aragorn warned but too late. Faramir tore himself free and they both turned around to see the scene. Boromir was putting his sword back in its scabbard with a strangely detached look on his face, Kanó lying on the ground, her head separated from her body, blood everywhere on the ground and on Boromir’s sword and clothing.

“NO!” Faramir yelled, fresh tears spilling as he ran to kneel beside Kanó’s body, stroking her fur. On the edge of hysteria he laid his head on the dog’s chest, her body still warm but cooling fast, crying into her fur.

“Good work,” Denethor complimented and clapped Boromir’s shoulder with a warm half-smile.

“Thank you,” Boromir replied automatically, his voice and eyes dead.

With one last look at the scene Denethor left to return to the palace and his daily duties, taking the servants with him who also took the chair he had been sitting in back inside.

Aragorn and Boromir looked at each other and then at Faramir, crying on the dog’s chest. First then did Boromir’s mask fall and his eyes were more anguished than Aragorn had ever seen them before. Aragorn walked to stand beside him and wanted to embrace him to ease his pain but Boromir would rarely allow touch unless he was too ill to protest so Aragorn forced his hands to stay at his sides.

“You had no choice. Denethor would have forced Faramir to do it or punished him severely for disobeying him. There was no way Faramir could have escaped this unharmed…no other way than this,” Aragorn said softly, knowing the words would not ease Boromir’s guilt and sorrow.

“Yet if I kept him safe on the cost of his love was the price then worth paying?” Boromir replied just as softly, his voice filled with loss and pain, his eyes, like Aragorn’s, glued to Faramir.

“He will always love you,” Aragorn mumbled, sure of this though he was not sure how to ease Boromir’s pain. All he knew was that he wanted nothing more than to do so, the healer in him wishing to ease even this pain.

Just then Faramir lifted his head, briefly, to look at them and there was no hate in his eyes when he looked at Boromir just confusion, pain and betrayal.

“Why?” he asked brokenly before his head returned to Kanó’s chest, his tears slowly beginning to die out from sheer exhaustion.

Aragorn looked at Boromir, his face and eyes filled with shared pain and compassion as his eyes also asked the question Faramir had, wishing more of an explanation than what he had already gotten.

“I did not want Faramir to have to kill his soul,” Boromir said softly. “His soul is so pure now; this blood would have soiled it forever.”

  
“What of your soul, my friend?” Aragorn asked softly, knowing what he had done would forever haunt him. Unable to stop himself he laid a soft and comforting hand on Boromir’s shoulder and was happy when Boromir did not shake it off though he did not allow himself the luxury to lean into the touch either, feeling he did not deserve the right to do so.

Boromir shrugged but the gesture was false and never reached his eyes. “Does not matter. I lost mine a long time ago; I had to.”

  
_Then I shall reclaim it for you_ , Aragorn thought, saddened and moved by Boromir’s words, knowing he was right. To survive he had had no other choice but to harden. With a last reassuring squeeze at Boromir’s shoulder, trying to put all his support and care into that touch, Aragorn withdrew his hand.

“I should have done it. I am oldest,” Aragorn augmented softly, trying not to let the depth of his emotions, of his thoughts, shine through. As the years had passed so had his desire to protect and save Boromir, from his father but maybe mostly himself, but he could not let the depth of the fondness and warmth he felt for Boromir show, knowing that right now Boromir was still struggling and would see his concern when not in response to a physical injury as a scorn unless given very, very carefully.

Boromir shook his head before he replied sadly, softly, “ What makes you think I care less for the soul of a brother of the heart than I do a brother of the blood?”

The words warmed Aragorn’s heart as Boromir rarely spoke of his emotions but before he could reply Boromir turned to face him, turning his back on the still softly crying Faramir. “Take care of Faramir for me. I do not wish him to touch me right now.” Boromir indicated the blood from the dog that had splattered unto his clothes and hands and Aragorn nodded in understanding.

“I will,” the words were almost strangled by the lump in his throat.

Boromir smiled his thanks but it was a dead smile; a sad smile. He might not have lost his brother’s love but he had lost his adoration; the way he had looked to him with complete faith, a hero forever in his eyes. He had known this day would come but the loss still hurt worse than Boromir had ever imagined.

Aragorn watched Boromir walk back into the palace, his steps strong but his body held an age and a sense of defeat it had not had before. Then Aragorn turned his attention to Faramir and saw his tears had stilled but he was still holding on tight to Kanó’s body.

“Come,” he said softly and Faramir let himself be lifted off Kanó and gently guided back into the palace, walking as if in a trance.

“I no longer wish for any more pets or anything else to care for,” Faramir said softly, his voice sounding as if he was still in shock or at least not all there.

Aragorn noticed Faramir had some of Kanó’s blood on his hands and gently guided the boy towards the kitchen to wash it off, thinking he’ll have him take a full bath afterwards and then have some food brought up to his bed before he tugged him in. The boy seemed to have aged several years in the space of a few minutes and now looked as exhausted as a seventy year old.

“Why is that?” he asked kindly and just as softly, asking more to keep Faramir from withdrawing too far into himself than anything else.

“I do not wish to fail the trust of another animal seeking it, expecting it, from me,” he replied softly and Aragorn was impressed with his reply though he knew the young boy thought in a deeper, more emotional plane, than his brother and father and sometimes even more so than him.

Aragorn didn’t know what else to say to that so remained silent as he cleaned Faramir up, casting a few worried thoughts to Boromir who had left with so much pain, guilt and suffering in his eyes. However, Faramir as the youngest was his priority and he did his best to try to guide him through the pain and shock, using all his healer skills and all his kindness to do so. He buried his brief flare of anger at Boromir, knowing he was not at fault. Instead his anger went to Denethor where he let it stay but controlled it…for now.


	12. Going Over The Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denethor tries to break Aragorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Contains a whipping scene and underage drinking for today's standards

## Chapter 12: Going Over The Edge

Dinner that evening was nothing short of torture. They had had terrible, even disastrous, dinners before not none as tense and explosive as this one.

When Faramir had come over the shock he had started to shake and cry and when it had been time to go to dinner and Faramir had to face his father again he had begun to shake and cry so badly, pleading Aragorn to let him stay behind, that Aragorn had had to slip some whiskey into his milk to calm him down enough to get him to go to dinner.

“I trust you will practice better now,” Denethor said into the tense silence at the dining table, his voice nonchalant as if he didn’t feel the temperature at the table was below freezing point.

Aragorn and Faramir hadn’t seen Boromir till they had gone to dinner. He had washed and change clothes and Aragorn hadn’t missed the white bandage around his right wrist, showing under his red tunic. Boromir had felt he had failed today and Aragorn knew Boromir knew only one way to deal with failure; punishment. He had a sad suspicion, had had it for some years now, that if no one else punished him he would do so himself. He had to force himself not to reach out to Boromir every time he saw what he had done to himself. His heart was aching with the desire to embrace the younger man and let him know that he was not alone; it was not his fault. But he could not; Boromir would not allow such a gesture and Aragorn knew it. He prayed one day he would be able to reach Boromir, reassure him that everything was not his responsibility…One day when Boromir asked for his support, for anyone’s support. But so far he had not and thus Aragorn could not give everything he longed to give and that was tearing him up inside.

“…Yes, Sir,” Faramir forced himself to say, his voice low and he was fighting to hold back tears.

 _I should have given him more whiskey_ , Aragorn thought sadly, darkly, as he saw Faramir’s hands were sharing so badly he had to put them in his lap, folding them so tight his knuckles went white. Then again Aragorn hadn’t known Denethor would go on and on about the advantages with having the dog killed so it could no longer distract Faramir.

“Yes. Things which contributes to failure is not what you need. On the contrary you could need all the help you can get in improving. Your progress is terribly slow. I have never seen any boy take to the sword this slowly,” Denethor reproved.

Faramir was barely holding himself together, his shoulders falling and he winced as if taking a physical blow for each critical remark his father gave him.

“For pity’s sake!” Boromir suddenly exploded, rising, his eyes and voice filled with shared pain and guilt. “Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

“Sit down,” Denethor demanded, his eyes tearing into Boromir’s anger and pain filled green ones until he reluctantly sat back down. “I cannot see the reason behind your outburst; you wished me to help him and I did.”

Boromir winced in guilt at these words and Aragorn gave him a sympathetic look, his anger at Denethor rising. Boromir really did not need the added burden. He was brilliant at blaming himself for any little mistake he did as it was, justified or not.

  
“If this is help,” Aragorn began softly, nodding towards Faramir’s shaking form, “I would hate to see what you do to hinder.”

  
”You will not speak another word tonight,” Denethor ordered him angrily before he turned to Boromir and snapped, “If you had given him a manly gift this would not have been necessary.”

Boromir winced again, guilt colouring his face and clouding his eyes.

  
_Okay, that’s it!_ Aragorn thought. He had had it. “Boromir is more of a father to Faramir and more of a man than you have ever shown yourself to be since I came here,” he said softly, his voice like ice, his eyes shooting dangers of hatred towards Denethor, his care for Boromir driving him on.

“I do not like the fire in your eyes,” Denethor said softly but there was hate burning in his eyes as well; hate but above all - paranoia. “You seek to take my life so you can claim the throne, do you not?”

  
Aragorn shook his head in disbelief and shock. “Never.” He paused before he added darkly, “Unlike some people I can control my emotions; also my hate.”

  
“How dare you?!” Denethor thundered, slamming his fist into the table, making Faramir jump and give a frightened noise. “You insolent boy!”

Aragorn’s hands formed fists. “You are not my father or my master. You cannot control my love.”

  
“I am glad not to be the first to such a disgrace of a son but I **am** the latter,” Denethor said dangerously. “I may not be able to command your love but I **will** have your obedience.”

Aragorn considered trying to protest this but knew there was no way around it. As long as he was in Gondor he owed the steward his obedience. “Yes, Sire,” he said, the voice as far from submissive as could be when saying such words.

Denethor’s eyes became small lines. He was losing him; he was losing control over Aragorn. He had to get it back fast or all would be lost. He had to let him know who was master, who was Steward here or the only thing Aragorn could ever be would be a loathed enemy and Aragorn was showing too much strength and intelligence for that to be an outcome Denethor was comfortable with. He was sure Aragorn would prove an enemy he would not be easily rid of. No, he had to try and get the boy’s obedience back; one way or another. “Servant,” he yelled over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on Aragorn. “Fetch me my riding crop, quickly.”

  
The servant saluted and was gone as silence settled over the table.

Boromir looked at Aragorn and they shared a frightened but strong look. Boromir’s eyes said he would defend him if he asked. In fact there was a stubborn set of his jaw that said he would go all the way with this as a way to make up for what he felt had been his failure earlier that day. But Aragorn shook his head almost visibly; it would do no good and would probably just end up earning Boromir punishment as well. However, he was deeply touched by the gesture.

Before Aragorn had time to try and accept what was to happen the servant was back and laid Denethor’s riding crop in his hand and had backed away. It was a long thin black leather crop and right now Aragorn had never seen anything as frightening. He had never been punished this severely; this humiliating. None of them had. His heart was racing, his breathing was getting out of control and his palms were sweaty. He would rather face a thousand Orcs in battle than this and he should know. He had been with Gondor’s rangers to battle against bands of Orcs several times the last two years and he had never been as afraid as he was now. In fact Boromir and Faramir had probably been more afraid for him when he went out with the rangers than he had been.

“Come here,” Denethor ordered, his voice strangely calm and detached as he rose from the table and pushed his chair back.

Aragorn forced his feet to move and went to stand beside Denethor, relieved that Boromir refused to follow him with his eyes as he walked around the table but was staring straight ahead.

 _Just think of nothing_ , he told himself but that was hard when Denethor was holding the crop in his hand.

Denethor moved and stood behind his chair, pushing it back into the table.

“Lean against the chair,” he ordered, nodding to his now empty chair and Aragorn did as ordered, blushing in embarrassment and fury as he presented his back and backside. There was no way he was letting the bastard see how hard this was to him.

“You could try apologizing or appealing to my mercy,” Denethor asked softly into his ear, leaning over him from the side.

“I have nothing to apologize for and I see no reason to appeal to something which obviously is not there,” Aragorn said just as softly, proud of himself that his voice did not shake and for being able to turn his head and look Denethor in the eyes as he spoke, anger driving him on.

Denethor nodded at this, his face clouding as he drew back.

The waiting was agonizing and Denethor’s steps as he walked behind him echoed loudly in the room. Aragorn’s fear intensified, his heart rate skyrocketed and he fought to hold onto his courage.

“I will take Faramir to…” Boromir began softly, his quiet voice sounding like a yell into the stillness as he started to rise.

“Stay!” Denethor ordered, pointing towards him with the crop. “You and Faramir can learn this lesson as well.”

  
Reluctantly Boromir sat back down and when Denethor was ready to raise the crop he leaned towards Faramir and whispered, his voice low enough for the words not to carry to Denethor and Aragorn, his voice pleading, “Look in his direction all the time but focus your eyes on the ceiling above father’s head. Do you hear me? Promise me you will not look.”

  
Faramir nodded mutely, fighting tears and his hand found Boromir’s under the table who gave it an reassuring squeeze as he smiled encouraging. As the first stroke fell Aragorn gave a noise of pain and surprise and Faramir held on tighter on Boromir’s hand. Faramir had tears down his cheeks and winced as each stroke fell while Boromir’s face was a study in withheld rage and pain.

Aragorn tried to meet each blow, feeling the power behind them through his plain shirt. He could feel wounds appearing; blood pepping forth and leaking through his shirt. He bit his lower lip till it bled to keep from crying out but each time the crop hit his back he would hiss out a pained breath, silently praying this would be Denethor’s last stroke. With the force he put behind each hit his arm would tire soon…at least he hoped so.

Time seemed to lose its meaning as all there was in this world for Aragorn was this hit and then the next. All that mattered was surviving this blow and then the next. As the pain became agony he had to bite back his pride and release his distress in yells of pain every time the crop fell on his abused skin.

“You two…finish your meals; you can eat and look at the same time!” Denethor’s sharp and breathless voice, filled with the exhaustion of hitting Aragorn so hard, penetrated Aragorn’s pain clouded mind and he winced in embarrassment and shared sympathy at the thought of Boromir and Faramir being forced to eat while watching this.

When Aragorn was on the verge of passing out from the pain, shock, blood loss and a million other things he couldn’t name the blows finally stopped. It felt like forever but counting it had probably ‘only’ reached about 30 strokes, most given on his back, a few on his arse.

“Leave. All of you,” Denethor demanded as he moved back from Aragorn, waving the now blooded crop towards Boromir and Faramir, his face and voice strangely dead and empty though breathless from exhaustion.

The stone floor where Aragorn stood was covered in blood and Aragorn was holding the chair’s back so hard with his fingers he would have broken it if he could. He felt light-headed and was afraid to let go of the chair in fear he’ll pass out.

“Go to your room and wait for me there,” Aragorn heard Boromir say to Faramir before, mercifully, Boromir’s strong arms closed around him, holding him as carefully as he could, trying not to hurt but his touch was still painful. Aragorn winced as he allowed himself to let go of the chair, trying not to lean too heavily on Boromir, knowing he was the shorter and smaller of the two though strong of built. However, the pain forced his hand and Boromir had to almost drag him out of the room. Pride made Aragorn stay coherent and he forced his head up to look Denethor in the eyes as he passed him. The blank look he got back gave nothing away; no mercy, no regret but no evil either. Just a man who had done a job and somehow that made Aragorn even more upset. He could at least have felt something; by the Valar, Aragorn would rather Denethor had taken enjoyment in his pain than this nothingness; as if his pain didn’t matter…at all. In that instant, as that thought reached him, he understood Boromir and Faramir’s pain and constant struggle to please their father; even painful attention became better than being pushed aside and ignored as if one were dead.

“We are almost there,” Boromir told him, his voice soft and his eyes held a warm but concerned glow as he helped him up the stairs to their rooms. However, the guilt and pain on Boromir’s face were familiar sights.

“Wasn’t your fault,” Aragorn mumbled, fighting to stay awake.

“Shh. Don’t try to talk,” Boromir hushed gently and before Aragorn knew it, just as he was to take the first pained step up the stairs to their rooms, his world dissolved and he slid into merciful darkness.

Aragorn fell towards Boromir and there was no mistaking he was unconscious. Boromir smiled sadly, softly, as he held him in a stronger grip to keep him from slipping to the floor.

“Sleep now, my friend, my brother. I shall keep vigil over you this night,” he swore and planted a soft kiss to Aragorn’s forehead before he lifted him up and carried him up the stairs over his shoulder as carefully as he could.

When Boromir had gotten Aragorn into his room he laid him face down on his bed and took off his shirt but chose not to pull his pants down to preserve Aragorn’s dignity and pride. He sent Faramir for supplies and soon he had washed and bandaged Aragorn’s wounds. Aragorn remained unconscious and Boromir tugged him in, lying on his stomach, before he got Faramir into bed, both talking little.

When Faramir was in bed Boromir tugged him in and softly kissed his forehead and then each of his cheeks.

“You hold my heart, little one. I am sorry I had to break yours today,” he whispered softly.

Faramir smiled and sat up in bed and gave Boromir a tight embrace before he released him and lay back against his pillow.

“My love and loyalty were always yours to command,” he said with much more seriousness and maturity than most gave him credit for.

Boromir laid a hand to his cheek and smiled sadly. “I know…that is why this was always so painful to my heart,” he mumbled softly and Faramir sent him a puzzled look. Boromir smiled reassuringly, not wanting Faramir to worry about him. “Go to sleep, sweet Faramir. Nothing shall harm you tonight.”

Faramir smiled happily and settled into sleep. Boromir remained on his bedside for a few seconds longer, a warm feeling washing over him at the peacefulness of his brother even though his sleep now was more exhaustion than anything else.

After some time Boromir rose and went to Aragorn’s room, leaving the doors open so he could hear Faramir should he call him. He took a chair and sat beside Aragorn, determined to keep an eye on him. He had failed enough people today. He would not fail Aragorn, the man he had come to care for as the second brother he did not have. All he knew was that unconsciousness could be dangerous and he had made a vow to keep Aragorn safe since the day the older boy had saved Faramir. At first it had been gratitude and honour; now the vow was for Aragorn and not for Faramir.

Aragorn also looked peaceful in sleep; he had a serenity in life, a sense of immortality which was enhanced in sleep. The picture of peace was so tempting to find within reach, since Boromir had always wished to touch such serenity, that he had to reach out and gently caress Aragorn’s cheek. Aragorn smiled a little at the touch and his head turned just a little to lean more into the touch.

“You have settled into deep sleep. This is good, my friend. This is good,” Boromir whispered and suddenly all the fear, guilt and pain of today spilled over and he cried a few tears in silence. He reluctantly withdrew his hand only to have Aragorn hold it tight in his sleep, his own hand closing around Boromir’s. Boromir smiled through his tears and his eyes dried out, warmth at the gesture, unconscious as it was, sweeping over him. He was used to being the one offering comfort, the one who had to be strong. It was a rare relief and pleasure to feel a brother’s strong and protective hand guiding him like he felt now. Here, safe in the darkness, alone, not even Aragorn knowing it, Boromir allowed the touch, allowed himself to be weak and take the comfort Aragorn’s touch was offering. He laid his other hand over their clasped ones on the bed. Though it made it uncomfortable to try and get some rest with his hand inside Aragorn’s he let it stay there and got as comfortable as he could before he closed his eyes, the faintest of smiles on his lips as the warmth from the grip swept over him, finally granting him a sense of peace in a world which normally offered him none.


	13. Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn leaves

## Chapter 13: Moving On

Aragorn lost sense of time. All he knew was that whenever he opened his eyes Boromir would be there, sitting at his bedside, tending to his every need with a gentle touch and a soft look in his eyes.

 _I have never seen his eyes so green, so filled with concern and warmth before…not unless they were resting on Faramir_ , Aragorn had thought with warmth in his heart when he had awoken at one point and in that moment he had truly felt like he was a part of this family. No longer a boy who had grown up with the Steward’s sons but a brother of these same sons…a brother in the truest sense of the word.

The pain had been a constant companion and he had been so endlessly tired. He would awake to drink a little and use the bed pot, which he needed Boromir’s help with and was too delirious and hurting to be embarrassed about. He would remember to smile at Boromir and his hand would search for Boromir’s until the younger boy found his and held it in a strong and secure grip. Only then, feeling sake and cared for, forgetting where he was and how he had come to be there, could he drift back to sleep again.

This time when he awoke it was because Boromir was calling him, sitting at his bedside. He moaned and forced himself to come awake. The room was dark save for a small candlelight standing on his table near the window that showed a dark night with few stars. The candlelight seemed to make a halo form around Boromir’s dark blond hair and for a moment or two he seemed handsome in an almost magical way, his profile the only thing visible. The sight made Aragorn feel a moment of awe and pride, feeling the symbolism was fitting, and he felt privileged to call a man such as this brother. Then Boromir turned and moved a bit towards him when he saw he was awake and the spell was broken.

Aragorn’s head felt like it was filled with cotton, as did his mouth. He felt stronger than he had in some time and fought himself free of his covers, swinging his legs to the floor. His long white nightshirt was not long enough not to make his lower legs and feet feel the coldness of the room. He took a pained gasp as he reached for the bed pot that stood beside the bed, waving Boromir’s helping arms away as he rose from the bed to do the deed he needed to do.

Boromir’s face closed a bit as he saw Aragorn had recovered enough now for the walls between them to be back up. He turned his back on Aragorn to grant him the privacy the older man’s dignity was now demanding. When the task was done and the pot had been given to a servant who left the room with it, Aragorn turned his eyes back to Boromir, sitting back heavily on the bed. Boromir was dressed as if ready to go out, a cape lying over the chair where he used to sit. Aragorn felt the small movement of sitting up and just taking a piss had taken the strength out of him. He lay back down on the bed, lying on his stomach. His wounds now hurt less and itched a lot more as new skin formed.

“What is going on?” Aragorn asked weakly, his eyes travelling to the chair, too tired now to lift his hand in that direction so he nodded instead.

“There are some hours left before the dawn that will signal the third day since your…ordeal,” Boromir explained softly, his eyes awake and cautious as he looked to the door and the window to be sure they were alone.

Aragorn frowned. It had been such a short time? It had felt like more. “Is Faramir faring well?” he asked worried.

Boromir’s features softened as they always did when mention of his brother reached him and Aragorn’s concern warmed his heart. “Even now you ask to others.”

Aragorn didn’t know how to reply to Boromir’s soft words so he remained silent.

Then Boromir’s eyes darkened with worry. “Truthfully then I worry for him. He has buried himself in his books and fairytales. Oh, he studies and practises as intensely as ever but…” He lowered his eyes to the floor. “I feel like I have lost a part of him.”

Without thinking, just knowing that Boromir’s pain was painful to his heart, Aragorn reached a weak hand towards him and Boromir took it in his at once, coming to sit on the bed, their hands clasped together in a handshake that did not break. For a few moments more the walls were down…just for a little while longer. They both needed that; both ignoring that they were present enough that they should have denied the contact, having been told time and again by Denethor that a man sought strength nowhere else than from within himself, a philosophy Aragorn did not share but had learnt to follow.

“You **did** lose a part of him but you kept more than you lost. As long as he has your protection he will always hold more than he loses.”

  
The warmth and caring in Aragorn’s voice and eyes made Boromir break eye contact to look at the floor. For a moment they sat in comfortable silence, their hands still connected. Then Boromir reluctantly drew back, knowing that if he kept hanging on he would never be able to let go again, and their hands fell apart.

“We have to move you,” he said regretfully.

“Move me?” Aragorn echoed, confused.

“I do not believe you to be safe here any longer,” Boromir said darkly, worried.

“What are you saying?” Aragorn asked confused.

  
“Aragorn,” Boromir began, amplifying the name, the royal name, “You are 18 years of age now and no longer a child. My father has become aware of this as well, most notably the other night.”

“You think he will try to rid of me,” Aragorn said shocked. “Mayhap…kill me.”

Boromir looked uncomfortable. “I…do not know”, he admitted. Then his eyes settled on Aragorn, a determined look in them. “But I see no reason to gamble when the stakes are your life.”

  
”You will order me out of your life this candidly?” Aragorn asked, his voice raising and he barely remembered to keep it down, knowing Faramir was sleeping in the other room and the castle was asleep. How could he do that? Did he not know how much he meant to him? Did he not know that he had become family; a brother not by blood but by fate? Had he closed himself off so completely?

“By the Valar, Aragorn!” Boromir hissed, his eyes glimmering rage and pain. “I do not candidly give away anything my heart has grown fond of.”

  
Though angrily spoken the truth, the warmth in Boromir’s words, warmed Aragorn to his very soul. He nodded then, knowing this was as hard on Boromir as it was for him and not wishing to force more words of emotion out of Boromir if he did not feel comfortable doing so. “How will I get out of the palace?”

“I contacted Gandalf when I went with Faramir yesterday to get him to his lesson. He will go with you and take you somewhere safe,” Boromir explained, knowing his brother would miss Gandalf, his most beloved teacher, when he was gone.

Boromir went to Aragorn’s closet and pulled out a shirt, a cape, a pair of pants, socks and a pair of boots and put them all in front of Aragorn’s bed before he returned to Aragorn’s closet and began to put clothes and various things from his desk into a saddlebag. From his drawers he took small drawings Faramir had given him and a book of Elven poetry Boromir had given him two years ago when Aragorn had been thrown from his horse and had been unconscious for days and everyone had feared the worst. Faramir had been by his bedside constantly and Boromir had run from Aragorn’s bedside and to his father’s side in a desperate attempt to cover over Aragorn’s state, afraid that Denethor would quickly give Aragorn up for dead if any healer gave him any indication such a decision could be grounded. The race had paid off but it had been a battle and had reminded Boromir of how much he had gained the day Aragorn had come into his life. He had never been big on words, showing his emotions in gestures instead and had therefore managed to get his hands on the rare book of Elven poetry, written by Elves in their own language and completely uncensored, something that often happened with translated Elven books as they often contained ideas or passages not compatible with Gondorian way of life. Boromir had never understood the appeal Faramir and Aragorn saw in the art or the Elven culture in general but unlike his father he respected both of them too much not to respect this part of them as well no matter if he understood it or not.

Aragorn rose to get dressed but it was a pained and slow performance. He was relieved that Boromir left him have this dignity to dress himself even though it hurt like a bitch.

“Are you ready?” Boromir asked, turning back to look at Aragorn now that he was dressed and who was fighting to get his breathing and heart rate under control as well as erase the strain and sweat from his brow that the task of dressing himself had cost him. Boromir was holding the saddlebag in one hand and held out a helping hand to Aragorn. Swallowing his pride Aragorn let himself be supported by Boromir’s arm.

“Did you get it all?”

Boromir nodded as they slowly moved to the door, Aragorn gasping from the pain and the strain.

“Wait! Get me back to the desk,” he requested and Boromir did as bid. He quickly took a piece of paper and with the pen wrote a greeting, while Boromir looked away to give him privacy. He sealed it and wrote Faramir’s name on it before he quickly did the same with one for Boromir, choosing to let him know how much he had come to mean to him; friend, confidante and brother. Pride and this strange concept he had observed here where men did not admit to their feelings had to Aragorn always seemed like poor excuses for not admitting to the people one cared for; family, friends or optional lovers, how much they meant. He had always tried to express his emotions whenever appropriate but Boromir was not a man with which this was easy so a letter would be the right approach. He knew Faramir needed to hear words of kindness as much as he needed to give them; just like himself did and therefore the warmth of his letter would not surprise the younger boy.

Having finished both letters Aragorn left them on the desk, fighting back the pain and tears of farewell and a pang of regret that he would never know if his letters helped the two brothers who had become brothers to him as well.

“Give it to Faramir when he awakes,” Aragorn requested when he looked at Boromir and tears formed in the corners of his eyes when he thought of parting from Faramir. He had become a brother to Aragorn in everything but blood and the urge to stay and protect him was strong.

“Come,” Boromir said softly and without a word he guided Aragorn into Faramir’s room and both men stood and admired Faramir’s peaceful sleeping features.

“I wish he would always look like this,” Aragorn mumbled as he bent down and planted a soft kiss to Faramir’s forehead.

Boromir looked at the small smile around Faramir’s lips, the relaxed limps and nodded.

“As do I,” he mumbled and with one last look at Faramir, Aragorn let himself be guided away and through the castle. None of them spoke as they walked but a sadness settled between them. They might never see each other again. They had been together every day for four years and now…now it was like losing a part of themselves to part.

All too soon they reached the backdoor the servants used and outside Gandalf sat on a beautiful white horse, holding a fine black stallion’s reins. Aragorn automatically smiled at his friend and Gandalf smiled back though it was worried.

“I will be alright, my friend,” Aragorn calmed him when Boromir helped him closer, making sure Aragorn’s arm stayed around his neck and his own stayed over it to make sure Aragorn’s arm remained around his neck in support.

They stopped beside the magnificent black stallion and Aragorn gasped in surprise when he recognized the horse.

“This is your horse, Boromir,” Aragorn whispered in awe. Boromir’s most beloved horse named Black Star. He had gotten it as a pony from his deceased mother and the horse moved with stealth and was as fast as the wind and as beautiful as a sunrise. It was Boromir’s pride and joy and he would ride him often to try and get his frustrations out through the freedom of Black Star’s speed, endurance and love to his master.

“He is yours now,” Boromir said softly, pain of parting from his animal friend in his voice but his eyes showed that he was certain and sure of his decision.

Aragorn shook his head. “I cannot accept this.”

  
Boromir sent him a look filled with warmth and concern as he replied, “Bring him safely back to me.”

Aragorn wasn’t sure if Boromir was speaking to the horse or him but the emotions in his voice was clear so he just nodded, a lump in his throat. Boromir let the saddlebag fall to the ground and helped Aragorn into the saddle. He tried to be as gentle as possible but Aragorn still hissed in pain when he was finally on the horse. Boromir then fastened the saddlebags on Black Star and stepped a bit back from the horse.

The deed done Boromir put his head back and looked up at Aragorn. So many emotions passed between them but not one was voiced.

“Be well, my friend and my brother,” Boromir finally said, his voice soft and raw.

Aragorn nodded and their hands met hand around wrist in a warrior’s greeting. “Find the peace to be happy, son of Gondor.”

  
Their hands fell apart and Gandalf let go of the horse’s reins and Aragorn took them.

“Safe journey,” Boromir wished as he stepped back and Gandalf nodded in greeting to him.

“We will meet again, young Boromir,” the wizard promised mysteriously but both Boromir and Aragorn took hope from the words.

Aragorn steered his horse after Gandalf, both moving out slowly so not to wake anyone in the palace.

Aragorn turned around in the saddle, ignoring the pain of being on horseback. “Boromir…” he began and Boromir nodded grimly.

“I shall protect him,” Boromir calmed him, a promise in his voice, and they both knew about whom they were speaking.

“Do not let your father turn him…or you into something you are not,” Aragorn pleaded and suddenly had to physically fight the urge to dismount. What would Faramir do without him? He would be alone all day now that Boromir got more and more demands upon him. Boromir could not be with him all the time….And what of Boromir? He had withdrawn so far. Would he be lost now? He would be all alone, no one to seek support from, even in his weakest moments, even when he could excuse it to himself…even when he would allow himself the weakness he felt asking for help was.

“I shall try,” Boromir said, not willing to make a vow he would not be able to keep. That Faramir should remain pure he would fight for. Yet he knew he would and probably already had given his soul to keep it that way and he would continue to do so with no regrets.

Aragorn nodded and cast Boromir one last look, suddenly wishing he had embraced Boromir properly but unsure if Boromir would have allowed it even in such an emotional moment.

“I **will** be back,” he swore but he could see on Boromir’s face that he didn’t believe it. Still, he forced a smile.

“I shall be here.” Despite his disbelief in Aragorn’s promise there was a flicker of hope in Boromir’s voice and that brought Aragorn hope as well. _Keep that hope…please don’t let this last light go out inside yourself_ , Aragorn prayed of his dear friend.

Aragorn nodded back and with one last look on the stoic young man who would smile only to his brother…and to him from time to time as well, Aragorn turned back to face the road ahead and Gandalf.

“Where are we going?” he asked Gandalf as they reached the gate to the streets outside the palace’s grounds.

“My old friend, Elrond’s, home in Rivendell.”

Boromir heard the reply just as both men disappeared out through the gates to the palace and away into the night. Boromir remained standing looking after them for a long time until he forced himself to go back.

Later that night Boromir put Aragorn’s letter to Faramir on his bedside table and took the one for himself into his room. He sat staring at it for a long time until he put it away, unopened. As long as it remained unopened, a part of him could pretend Aragorn was still here somehow, somewhere. A ghost of solitude; of support…a silent helper as he had always been when he had been here in flesh and blood.

The next morning Faramir cried over the loss of a man who had become a beloved brother, second in heart only to Boromir and who had shared his passions for the Elven lore which no one else here did.

Faramir had read Aragorn’s letter for the first time that morning:

_Brave, kind Faramir,_

_My brother of the spirit._

_Though I have left my presence still lingers. If you hurt let my memories calm you, if you are lonesome remember my embrace._

_Above all remember that I believe in you. No matter what happens, what others may say, then you are a great man and will grow to become a great leader of men. I am merely saddened I cannot be there to see it and ease the way for you._

_My love will remain yours forever._

_Your brother,_

_Aragorn_

Faramir smiled through his tears when he read Aragorn’s words and as the years passed he would continue to smile through tears and pain every time he read the letter, letting the words smooth and comfort him. The ghost of Aragorn did indeed still linger and his presence smoothed and calmed Faramir and despite all his hurts, all the beatings he took then his soul remained pure and his heart remained open thanks to the healing hands of the man who would be King and the protective shield of his brother’s love.

Boromir’s letter remained unopened though Boromir would sometimes take it out and look at it before putting it back in his drawer, fighting to keep a hope he no longer believed in, alive through the dead letters on the paper. Without anyone to support him, anyone to lean on in any way, his heart grew cold until only four things could move him: his brother, his father, Gondor itself…and the ghost of a man named Aragorn, long lost but never forgotten.

The ghost of a man who would be King lingered in Boromir’s mind, a torment and a reminder of a love, a support, he could never regain, another burden, another loss, to a young soul already carrying the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders.


	14. Meeting Legolas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn meet Legolas

## Chapter 14: Meeting Legolas

Aragorn had been travelling for many days, Gandalf and his memories his sole companions.

Black Star was a magnificent horse but his very presence, as he carried Aragorn further and further away from the place he had come to call home, reminded him of what he was leaving behind. If someone asked him if the last four years had been terrible, if someone asked him if he’ll return…the answer would not be simple. He had often dreamt he could get away from the hard eyes of the Steward he had been bound to serve but in his dreams Faramir and Boromir had always come with him. There was nothing like hardship and shared pained experiences to bond people together and Aragorn had grown to care deeper for Faramir and Boromir than he had any, save his parents and yet this care, this love, was different.

Boromir had never wished for his protection and Aragorn had been forced to see him fight alone and stand alone. However, he offered him solace and peace whenever he could, whenever Boromir was too physically exhausted to remain strong, trying to ease his burdens the only way Boromir would allow him to. Faramir had craved his love, attention and protection desperately and Aragorn had happily given it. Both Boromir and Faramir had valiant and self-sacrificing natures but ironically enough Boromir’s greatest sacrifices went silent and Faramir’s were ignored. By the Valar how he would miss them!

He had thought he would miss Faramir most of all since he had spent most time with him, since they had been so alike yet it was Boromir he found his thoughts resting on more than any other; it was him he worried for the most. Faramir could be hurt, beaten and a million of things in between but though his body could break Aragorn had never doubted that the boy’s spirit was pure and would remain so. This was also the cause of Faramir’s greatest hurts for it enabled him to hurt so easily yet it also enabled him to love and to forgive, to see all the roads in the wood and not just the one most travelled by.

Boromir on the other hand…his body was unbreakable but Aragorn wasn’t sure if his spirit was as well. That Boromir would grow to become a great warrior he had no doubt but would he also become a great man? Denethor’s blood was strongest in his oldest son…. Aragorn would like to believe his presence had been smoothing to the darkness that he had always known was lurking deep within Boromir’s mind. Now, without him, would the love Boromir bore for his brother be enough to keep that darkness at bay? Would it be enough to prevent him from falling deeper and deeper into a ring of darkness, paranoia, fear and pain like his father who was still falling, further and further and with greater and greater speed?

“You have been very quiet, young Aragorn. Is your mind troubled by being in the Wood Of Thieves?” Gandalf asked, with a hand indicating the dark forest they were riding through side by side. They were still in Gondor but close to Rohan’s borders and would be passing Helm’s Deep on Gondor’s side if they had not already. From there they would go around the Misty Mountains to reach Rivendell. 

It was still a pleasant surprise to hear his true name spoken so openly, not having to whisper or look around to be sure they were alone.

“The danger here is not what troubles me. You say your magic holds them back,” Aragorn nodded towards Gandalf’s staff and the stone on top of it, which was glowing faintly but faithfully, “And I have every faith in your abilities.” Aragorn fell silent, thoughtful, and Gandalf let him have his silence. “Nay, my old friend…it is what I leave behind and not what I am moving towards which is on my mind.”

  
“What you are looking for could be ahead and not behind,” Gandalf said mysteriously.

“You have never said as much but I knew you would not elect to stay hidden in Minas Tirith for four years, most likely on the pain of death had Denethor discovered you had disobeyed him by remaining in the city, if not you felt you were educating a King,” Aragorn said softly, calmly, his eyes meeting and holding Gandalf’s.

“The future has many faces,” Gandalf admitted, “Elrond has the gift of foresight and shares this knowledge with me at times. In one future…who I educated were a King and his steward.”

Aragorn’s stomach twisted in fear, focusing on only one word in that sentence.

“S...steward? Yet Faramir is not the oldest son….” His voice died away. That could only mean one thing; in one possible future, he would be King, Faramir would be his steward…and Boromir would be dead. That this implied Denethor died as well didn’t even register as more than a fleeting thought; he would shed no tears for the Steward and was not even able to mourn the loss of a life at the moment, not when his back was still hurting him despite Gandalf’s help and magic which had made the pain lessen and the healing speed up.

“Yet this future does not have to come to pass,” Aragorn said, the question more a desperate plea. He had to fight his urge to ride back to Minas Tirith to assure himself Boromir was still alive and to stay there and guard over him to insure he remained so. Boromir could not die; he would not allow it!

Gandalf smiled faintly. “No, it does not. That is only one of many possible futures.”

  
”Yet in them all, win or lose, you see me reclaiming Gondor…you see my line, the line of Isildur, back as rulers of Gondor?” Aragorn asked softly, the question more a realisation as he tried to come to term with a possibility which was now much more a certainty, for he had every faith in Gandalf and any Elven abilities.

Gandalf nodded. “I do.” Seeing the weight of a too heavy burden in Aragorn’s voice he added reassuringly, “When the time is right you will find the strength to become a King. Until then do not torment yourself with thoughts on how to govern a land not yet yours to lead or to worry about.”

Aragorn nodded and forced himself not to think about it. If he did his head would start hurting more than his wounds on his back made it do. He was to express his thanks to Gandalf for his honesty and support when a sudden noise of fighting stopped him.

“Where?” Aragorn asked, tensing, one hand going to his sword by his side. He looked around, searching for an opponent, knowing that Orcs become more and more daring yet so far from Mordor they should have been safe from them at least if not other agents of evil.

“There!” Gandalf pointed some distance ahead into the forest the same time Aragorn spotted a beautiful and elegantly dressed rider fighting off some thirty men on horseback with his bow, the shots coming inhumanly fast, every one cutting down a rider.

Without a second thought Aragorn pulled on his horse and with Gandalf close behind he raced to the man’s aid. He drew his sword before he reached them and soon he was beside the stranger, cutting down some of the ill looking and even worse smelling big men whose devious deeds had given the forest its name as the Forest of Thieves.

With the stranger’s deadly aim and fast arrows together with both Aragorn and Gandalf’s swords all the thieves were soon slain.

“Are you unhurt?” Aragorn asked worried, putting his sword back into its scabbard and turning his horse around to face the stranger. He hadn’t gotten a good look at him before. Now that he did he had to gasp in surprise and awe. It was an Elf. And not just any Elf. Delicately boned with high cheekbones, long blond hair and blue eyes like the ocean, this was an Elf who made it clear to Aragorn that the legend about Elves and their great but delicately looking beauty had not been exaggerated. His first thought was, _wait till I tell Faramir this_ , but then he recalled he might never seen him again and a little of his amazement and joy at finally seeing a real Elf faded in the face of his loss.

“I am, thank you kindly for your assistance,” the Elf said as he put his bow away. He was dressed in fine, long and warm robes, beautifully coloured and decorated and looked very out of place in the rough forest.

“Legolas!” Gandalf said warmly with surprise in his voice as he too got his horse up alongside the Elf’s. “This is a surprise, though a pleasant one.”

  
Legolas smiled and Aragorn was stunned that this eternal creature could look even more beautiful; even more…ethereal. “My heart is glad to find you well.”

“This is my friend, Aragorn. Aragorn, this is the prince of Mirkwood, Legolas,” Gandalf introduced.

Aragorn reached out his hand and shook Legolas’ around the wrist and by Legolas’ surprised look he gathered Elves did not greet each other thus.

He drew back on his horse. “A pleasure, Your Highness.”  
  


Legolas smiled warmly and shook his head. “No titles between friends for surely a man who rushes into the heart of danger to save a stranger must be a friend.”

Aragorn nodded his thanks and smiled, thinking that yes, indeed, he could become fast friends with this eternal creature.

“Let us move on,” Gandalf said and they all turned their horses toward Rivendell.

“May I ask what an Elf is doing this far south?” Aragorn asked as they rode on, not even realizing that in his interest in Legolas, the miracle of talking to a real life Elf, a lifetime wish of his, he had for a while managed to forget the pain of leaving Faramir and Boromir behind.

“I was in Rivendell visiting Lord Elrond on behalf of Mirkwood and my father when Lord Elrond told me no one had heard from Gandalf since he had gone to Minas Tirith. He asked if I could make sure his old friend was unharmed and since I had not been in Gondor for hundreds of years, and was curious to see what changes the hand of time had done, I agreed.”

“Elrond always did worry too much,” Gandalf complained but there was a smile around his lips.

The rest of the trip went uneventful and as the days passed Aragorn and Legolas become fast friends. Aragorn was curious and eager to know everything about the Elven culture and Legolas was eager to tell and just as eager to know about the human ways. When the trio reached Rivendell Legolas and Aragorn had created a bond that would only strengthen as the years passed.

The presence of this bond would ease Aragorn’s mind and as time passed Aragorn’s amazement with Legolas as an elf and with his shining beauty also faded and became the warm love of a friend and bond brother.

Despite the comfort of this strong bond as Legolas stayed with Aragorn in Rivendell, then on many a night Legolas would find his friend out on the balcony of his room, looking longingly out to the south, towards Gondor. Aragorn would try to find a measure of peace in the stars but for once their cold and constant beauty was not enough to ease his heart. With a friendly smile and a warm hand on his arm Legolas would lead him back inside and offer to do any number of activities with him from simply admiring Rivendell’s beauty to riding or reading in an attempt to take Aragorn’s mind of his pain.

Still, even though Aragorn would say he was happy here, in the heart of beauty, serenity and peace, the knowledge that Faramir and Boromir were still back there, were still fighting for their lives and souls, would haunt his dreams no matter how hard he tried to tell himself that, for now, there was nothing he could. Not yet at least.

Not yet….But one day. One day he would return to Gondor and to the friends, the family, he had left behind. That vow, that thought, kept his worry and longing at bay.

One day.


	15. Rivendell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn makes it to Rivendell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter for this update. I hope these large updates can help someone get through these hard times more easily. Kudos and comments would mean a lot to me so if you are enjoying the story please let me know.

##  Chapter 15: Rivendell

Rivendell was everything Aragorn had ever dreamt it would be and much more. Its beauty and grace was without equal. Living in this city was the complete opposite of Gondor. While Minas Tirith had faded further and further, becoming a shadow of its former glory, marked by death and war, lying in constantly darkness, Rivendell was light.

The city seemed to be bathed in forever light and warmth; an eternal summer. The houses were fine and elegant and all colours were warm, soft and bright. All the Elves were elegantly boned with beautiful long hair and wearing long robes of colour and detail. In fact the notice to detail was amazing here. Nothing was left to coincidence. Everything was carved, cut or jewelled to give the uppermost beauty.

It took Aragorn some time to get over his shock and amazement at seeing the people and culture he had admired for so long up close. It also took him some years to feel completely at ease here, most of all with Lord Elrond.

His new benefactor and later adoptive father was as much a leader as Denethor was. He was strong, opinionated and stubborn but unlike Denethor he was neither paranoid nor unfair. Despite having had bad experiences with humans he welcomed Aragorn and treated him like an Elf. Like Denethor he had high hopes for Aragorn and soon he was studying Elven language, history and culture, doing so gladly and with great interest. Though Elrond was more subdued than Aragorn’s own father would have been when Aragorn excelled, then he was equally subdued in his anger and disappointment.

Elrond also told Aragorn that he had offered to take him in when his parents had died because his mother’s family had ties to Rivendell. Far out but still there and Elves never forgot the bond of blood. This news had lightened Aragorn’s heart but though he knew his life could have been easier and very different had he never went to Minas Tirith, then he would not have given up the love and care he had experienced through Faramir and Boromir just so he could have avoided the humiliation and pain he had suffered. In the end all his pain had seemed justified for the joy he had felt when being with the two Gondorian brothers.

As the years passed Aragorn did not see Elrond lose his temper even once. Not even when Aragorn accidentally destroyed one of his favourite and very old books. He had been so sure he would be punished for it, had expected it, and when none had been given he had been slightly confused. It had taken years for him to get over the feeling of being watched and being cautious, expecting a sharp word or punishment for any wrongdoing. 

As the years went by Aragorn grew from admiring Elrond to loving him like the adoptive father he had become and Elrond came to love his human son as if he was his own.

Elrond had two twin sons, Elladan and Elrohir, both grown. Aragorn got along well with them but felt they had little in common. He spent most of his time with Legolas and Arwen, Elrond’s beautiful daughter and the youngest of the Elven race. Arwen had an innocence to her none of the other Elves had. Despite the purity of their souls the older Elves had all seen battle. Only Arwen, and to a degree Legolas, were untouched by the pain of years. Legolas, being the youngest of the King of Mirkwood’s sons had been protected all his life yet his natural curiosity and wanderlust had broadened his horizon and given him more outlook than Arwen had. Arwen though, possessed a natural warmth, grace and beauty which made loving her as easy as breathing and Aragorn had fallen in love with her from he had first seen her. To his wonder and joy she returned his feelings and her love together with Legolas’ companionship eased his worry and pain of being separated from the two younger boys who he had left behind in Gondor and who had become brothers to him.

In many ways life in Rivendell was like a dream but reality came crashing back when a year before his 27th birthday Aragorn had gone to Lord Elrond to ask for Arwen’s hand in marriage. Despite Elrond’s love for his adopted son he wished his daughter the best and a mortal husband who had nothing as of yet to offer was not in the cards. However, in at least one of Elrond’s visions for the future he had seen his daughter as Queen of Gondor and this, together with Arwen’s pleas and Aragorn’s silent but suffering acceptance of Elrond’s decline of his proposal to his daughter, made him reconsider. He agreed that Aragorn could wed his daughter the day he had proven himself worthy of this and thus sat as King of Gondor. With this hope in mind Aragorn and Arwen kept their love strong and proud, fiercely supported by Legolas. Though Legolas warned him that humans might not so easily accept an Elven Queen as the Elves accepted a human in their midst Aragorn refused to consider such ordeals yet.

As the years passed Aragorn broadened his horizon and learnt how to be a kind but strong leader. He learned to accept and love the differences in people of all races. He saw the love between Elves and humans and between Elven warriors. Through warrior bondings he saw Elven warriors and lovers who had been faithfully together for thousand of years and Aragorn came to realize that any kind of love was beautiful. He found hope, now more than ever, that his own human people would come to accept his Elven beloved and take her as their Queen. Yet through Elrond and Legolas’ warnings he knew he would probably have to fight for his love yet through the years he had come to the conclusion that if love wasn’t worth fighting for then nothing was.

The years in Rivendell flew by filled with lessons, fancy clothes, beauty, serenity and maturity. It was years of growth where Aragorn learned to trust himself and his instincts. He refined his ranger skills and his skills at court. He matured under Elrond and Gandalf’s masterful hands and grew into a compassionate, kind hearted, but also strong, and confident man. No, more than a man…a King. A King ready to reclaim the country that had been lost to him…a King ready to reclaim the family, the love, that had been taken from him.


	16. Return To Minas Tirith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn returns to Minas Tirith

## Chapter 16: Return To Minas Tirith

Some time after Aragorn’s 27th birthday, the day he had both dreaded and longed for came to pass.

Despite the serenity of Rivendell Aragorn had become aware of a darkness drawing near, the same as the Elves had. His years with the Elvenkind had gifted Aragorn with many of their skills and secrets and when he had been living in the wild, refining his Ranger skills, he had learned to listen to the earth and the forbearing it was whispering.

The threat from Mordor had grown rapidly through the years, aided by an unknown but powerful force. Orcs were getting bolder, coming from the direction of Isengard for reasons none could decipher. With the increasing number of Orcs in the forests he had travelled between Rivendell and the Misty Mountains, Aragorn knew the forces at Gondor’s gates would be even more plentiful. News travelled slow and news from Gondor, now more or less a closed land since it had cut all connections to its last ally, Rohan, were almost none existent. Aragorn did not know Boromir or Faramir’s fate but he knew both, in particular Boromir as oldest son and as Captain-General of Gondor’s armies until he became Steward of Gondor, would in particular be on the frontline.

Aragorn knew Boromir would never send his soldiers into a battle he did not lead, standing in front of them, leading them, giving Aragorn many a worry for his safety, fearing he could be long dead without him even knowing it. He wished to believe he would know somehow, feel it, if Faramir or Boromir died, yet he feared he would not. 

The danger from Mordor grew so great that Gandalf and Elrond knew something was underway yet they were not sure of what it was. Gandalf decided to travel to The Shire to visit an old friend, the Hobbit Frodo, to see if the Orc threat had reached that far. Elrond had asked if anyone would volunteer to go to Gondor to retrieve information about the threat from Mordor and Aragorn had volunteered at once. Legolas, who had been watching over his friend as bond brothers do, were not to be persuaded from joining him.

After a heartfelt farewell between the young lovers, Arwen and Aragorn parted for the first time since they had announced their love.

The journey from Rivendell to Minas Tirith was long and filled with more dangers than when Aragorn had taken it towards Rivendell 9 years earlier. Despite the dangers the man and the elf made a good pace and with skill at both avoiding and confronting the enemy, none of them received any injuries during the journey.

Though Aragorn recalled how dull and grey he had found Minas Tirith when he had first seen it, entering it now, 9 years later, made it seem even darker when Rivendell’s light and beauty stood so clear in his mind. The further toward Mordor the two companions had travelled the darker the sky had became and the more uneasy did Legolas feel; feeling the stench of evil in the very air itself.

Minas Tirith was in a state of organized chaos when Legolas and Aragorn rode into the city. Though both were dressed for travel the fact that Legolas were an elf should have made more people look and the fact that they did not worried Aragorn for it meant something bad had happened or were about to.

They reached the palace and rode into the courtyard. It was a strange feeling to be here again. The last time he had been here had been the day…the day Boromir had killed Kanó, a day that still haunted Aragorn’s nightmares.

Aragorn’s eyes searched for a familiar face but all he saw were troops getting ready to leave or runners entering the courtyard and running to and from the palace with orders and messages.

Aragorn spotted some rangers and he recalled that Boromir had spoken about letting Faramir command the rangers when he was Captain-General of the city because the ranger duties would take his younger brother far from the capital and their father’s hurtful words. Aragorn turned his attention to them and rode towards them.

First when Aragorn saw the young man addressing the rangers he did not recognize him. He was tall, almost as tall as Aragorn. His hair was slightly curly, shoulder length and light brown. His built was fit and that of a warrior yet still it had a grace and spirituality that matched the emotions in his eyes. It was his eyes and the way all his emotions were reflected there and in his face that gave him away.

“Faramir,” the word was a shocked whisper but Faramir heard and turned puzzled towards him from where he had been speaking to his men from atop his horse, having been so engrossed in what he had been saying that he had not noticed the rider moving towards him.

His surprise, shock and then joy were clearly reflected in his face. “Aragorn!” He yelled happily and rode the short distance between them before he jumped from his horse and went to stand beside Aragorn’s horse, looking up at him while he smiled widely. “You have returned!”

Aragorn nodded, a lump in his throat. All these years worrying and wondering…Faramir was unhurt! He felt such relief he was almost light-headed.

“You have grown up in my absence,” Aragorn said softly, a hint of regret in his voice that he had not been there to witness it.

“So have you. You are more like a King now then you ever were,” he said warmly. At Aragorn’s surprised look he smiled fondly and added, “No one told me; I figured it out.”

  
“I should have known you would,” Aragorn said as he handed his horse’s reins to Legolas and jumped from his horse to stand beside the man who had been his brother. Now that they were both grown men Aragorn was suddenly unsure of what to do. Logically he had known Faramir would not be a child when he returned yet still, in his heart, he had never changed or grown.

Faramir smiled at him before his face grew serious, not seeing Aragorn’s hesitation in his joy at his return. “Your letter warmed my heart and to this day still do. I carry it with me in my shirt pocket when I leave the citadel to remind myself of the great trust you put in me from the start so I do not fail you.”

Aragorn saw the sadness, the pain, in his voice and eyes as he mentioned that word, fail, and suddenly all his hesitation melted away and Aragorn gathered him in a large embrace. “You could never fail me, little brother. Never.”  
  


Faramir returned the embrace heartfelt before reluctantly drawing back, tears glimmering in his eyes as he did so. “Brother of my spirit,” Faramir whispered and Aragorn nodded and smiled, moved by his words; that he used the same that he had written so long ago and had remembered them by heart.

“Always.”

The moment lasted forever or a few seconds before Aragorn looked away and looked at Legolas who had jumped from his horse and were now holding the reins from both horses, patiently waiting, giving them time and space.

“Faramir, I have someone special I would like you to meet,” Aragorn began and nodded towards Legolas.

First now did Faramir notice him and his smile and the hand he had extracted in greeting died in midair. “It’s…” Faramir began, turning to Aragorn before he turned back to Legolas, shock, joy and disbelief on his face, “You’re an elf!”

Legolas smiled, a gleam of humour in his eyes. “I have been so for the last 6000 odd years, Steward’s son.”

“Please, call me Faramir,” Faramir insisted as he had gotten over the shock and took Legolas’s arm in a warrior greeting which Legolas had expected from knowing Aragorn.

Aragorn smiled fondly at the look of awe and amazement in Faramir’s eyes, as he looked at Legolas, probably itching to touch him to reassuring himself he was real. “I am glad to see some things have not changed,” Aragorn said softly. Though he had been more worried for Boromir’s soul Faramir could still have suffered a lot and it was hard to stay hopeful and open in a world filled with darkness.

“Are you preparing for battle?” Legolas asked, nodding to the buzzing activity of men coming and going.

Faramir grew serious at once, falling into the role of leader of the rangers. “Yes. Orcs are invading the borders from Mordor, pushing us harder and further for each day.”

Legolas and Aragorn shared a worried look. “All across Middle Earth the threat from Mordor has been growing,” Aragorn told Faramir, frowning in concern.

“Yet it is with Gondor’s blood everyone else’s borders are kept safe,” a hard, almost challenging voice said from behind them. A voice Aragorn would have recognized anywhere.

“Boromir,” he fought to say the name calmly, tried to get his joy under control but he wasn’t sure if he succeeded. He knew for a fact the smile around his lips stayed as he turned to look at him. He was safe as well. Both his brothers were safe. His joy, his relief, knew no bounds.

Boromir sat atop his horse and looked like he had 9 years ago only…older. With more scars, more dead eyes, a harsher voice, rougher hands…he looked older than 9 years should have done and Aragorn knew something worse than time had aged him.

“Aragorn?” Boromir asked surprised and his scowl faded and became a wide smile. “It eases my heart to see you well.”

Even in his joy he managed to remain calm as he gave Aragorn a warrior’s greeting, still seated atop of his horse. Of course; he would think embraces were for children, lovers and womenfolk and Boromir would not wished to be counted as either. Maybe when they were alone…He was certain Boromir still embraced Faramir yet he was also fairly certain that in his eyes Faramir wasn’t grown yet but remained the sweet child he needed to protect, love and care for.

“And mine you,” Aragorn said back with a smile, pushing his disappointment of the subdued greeting away. He had known Boromir would probably greet him in this manner even if he had hoped for something more, something deeper to acknowledge the strong bond of brotherhood they had shared.

Boromir’s eyes when they rested on Aragorn were filled with warmth and reassurance settled in when he had scanned his body and found him unharmed. Then his eyes found Legolas and they hardened at once.

Aragorn reluctantly released Boromir’s arm and said, “Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, this is Boromir, oldest son of the Steward of Gondor and Captain-General of Gondor’s armies I assume?” He added the last part with a questioning look at Boromir.

Boromir nodded to this and reached out his hand. The handshake was brief and formal and there was no doubt that Boromir did not like Legolas much.

“You reached Rivendell well?” Boromir asked with a hint of concern, turning back to him and ignoring Legolas now that he had done what politeness dictated.

Boromir had fought to pretend that a part of Aragorn had never left; now he could no longer do that. Aragorn had grown and changed. He was a man now; no, a King. He no longer needed his protection; he no longer needed him. He now had an Elf by his side and it was clear he meant a lot to Aragorn and the warmth and closeness between them felt like a knife in Boromir’s heart. He felt his soul being torn apart; one part of him was happy that Aragorn had spent the last many years in safety and surrounded by beings who loved him and who he loved in return yet a part of him was jealous and bitter; these years had not been kind on him and the illusion that Aragorn had stayed with him, that he somehow still needed a part of him, was what had kept him going when Faramir’s endless love had not seemed enough to keep the darkness at bay. Now, he could no longer play pretend…he could no longer pretend he had not lost the man who had come to be second only to Faramir in his heart. He knew it was stupid and senseless but he needed someone to blame for his loss and he couldn’t blame Aragorn. He didn’t think he could ever blame a man who had saved his brother and who he had grown so fond of, so, justified or not, he blamed the Elf instead. Years of listening to his father’s angry and scornful words about the Elvenrace made the gesture easier.

Aragorn felt a pang of anger at this but it was more because he did not wish to one day be forced to choose between a bond brother and a man who was as dear to him as if he had been his own flesh and blood. “Yes. I have been in Rivendell since leaving here.”

  
“I would wish to see the beauty of the fabled Elven city some day,” Faramir said with a dreamy look and Legolas gave him a warm smile, already liking the youngest of the brothers. Boromir, on the other hand, worried him but Aragorn thought highly of him so Legolas would not jump to conclusions. Most Elves were also very subdued in their display of emotions so this fact did not bother him; it was the coldness in his stare when he looked at anyone but Faramir and Aragorn that made the Elf fear for the man’s heart and soul.

“I would be honoured to show it to you as well as any other Elven place you might wish to see, providing it is me permitted to show this to mortal eyes,” Legolas told Faramir.

Faramir nodded, clearly moved by Legolas’ gesture, knowing the Elf’s word was his bond. “I would be honoured.”

“There is naught there which Gondor could not provide,” Boromir bid in, fear of losing his brother now that he left he had already lost Aragorn to the lure of elves, strong in his voice.

Faramir gave him a half wounded look but let it go.

“Not that I am not very pleased to see you again but what brings you back to Minas Tirith?” Faramir asked of Aragorn to keep his heart from feeling hurt over his brother’s harsh words; words that echoed in his mind like his father’s. Boromir were rarely unkind to him in any way and the few times he had been always hurt worse than anything ever had.

“The growing threat from Mordor made my journey here necessary.”

“You are a fool to return,” Boromir said harshly. “I did not have you taken out in secret, guard your whereabouts even under the bite of the lash so you could return and get yourself killed in broad daylight.”

“I am sorry you suffered for me.” Aragorn felt guilt and compassion at Boromir’s words though he had always known this was a possibility. Denethor would wish to know where he was and would not rest until he found a satisfactory answer.

“I made my choice,” Boromir said with a shrug as if whatever pain he had suffered were not important.

“I owe you a debt,” Aragorn said sincerely, heartfelt.

“You owe me nothing but to stay alive.” Boromir demised the gesture with a hand movement.

  
Aragorn wanted to offer words of thanks and sympathy but did not know how to express them without Boromir feeling he was belittling his actions or patronizing him; both things he would hate him for. So instead he chose to get down to business.

“I come here as a grown man and under Lord Elrond of Rivendell’s protection. Legolas and I are, officially, here as ambassadors of Rivendell and Mirkwood and any harm on our persons will be taken as an attack on any of those two nations,” Aragorn explained, moved by Boromir’s ill veiled concern for his welfare.

“If you are ambassadors then let us bid you welcome as such,” Boromir said with a small smile though Aragorn’s words of alignment to Rivendell made him frown slightly; he really had lost him to the Elves. “Father is in the throne room. You better go present yourself.” His feelings of hurt, abandonment and betrayal had Boromir’s last words come out harsher than he had first intended.

“When do you ride into battle?” Aragorn asked as Boromir was to steer his horse away and continue organizing the battle.

“Tomorrow at dawn.”

“I will ride with you,” Aragorn said, not wishing to lose Boromir now that he had just found him again. He had grown colder in the 9 years but all was not lost; there was the same love in Boromir’s eyes when he looked at Faramir and he stilled cared for him; Aragorn could see it, hidden but still there, when Boromir looked at him.

“As will I,” Legolas said.

“This is not your fight,” Aragorn protested, not wishing Legolas to risk his immortal life under any circumstances and certainly not in a battle not his own.

“It is yours…that makes it mine as well,” Legolas said simply and Aragorn smiled fondly and laid a hand on his shoulder for a few seconds, moved by his loyalty and love.

“I shall call on you then,” Boromir promised, his eyes narrowing when he saw the warm moment that passed between Legolas and Aragorn.

“I wish to…” Faramir began.

“No!” Boromir said sternly before he sighed, indicating they had had this debate before. “We have agreed you attack with the rangers, from a distance, leading the arrow charge.”

“I wish to charge with you,” Faramir said stubbornly.

“You are too young.”

“I am 17 winters. I am no longer a child,” he seemed sad but not angry at Boromir’s dismissal.

Boromir looked around to be sure they were alone before he looked down at his brother from his horse and smiled warmly, “When you turn 18 you will be a man and I can no longer keep you safe with a command but until then I ask you to do as I order for I ask out of love and not scorn.”

Faramir nodded, clearly moved by Boromir’s rare words of love and smiled warmly. “I shall lead the rangers then.”

“It is a honourable job, never doubt this.”  
  


“Father does not think so,” Faramir said softly.

“But **I** do,” Boromir said quietly but strongly and with a last look at him and then an intense one at Aragorn he rode off. Over his shoulder he said, “I must go prepare the men. I shall call for you when it is time.”

Aragorn looked after Boromir as he disappeared into the crowd. “He has changed much,” he said sadly. He was colder, harder, more closed off.

Faramir nodded grimly. “He remained as he always has been to me but only for me. I think…I think he lost hope.”

  
“You were all he had,” Aragorn said softly, sadly before his eyes turned from where Boromir had disappeared from view to Faramir, “Did he not read my letter?”

Faramir shook his head. “He did not. He has kept it all these years but it remains unopened.”

Aragorn looked surprised at him. “Why?” The letter had been a poor way to try and keep a support and caring which he no longer could after he was gone but it had been something; better than nothing.

“I think…mayhap by it remaining unopened he tried to pretend you had never left,” Faramir said softly, biting his lower lip, afraid he had said too much.

“But I had,” Aragorn said softly, seeing what he meant.

“You had,” Faramir agreed just as softly. A pretend could not last for long…an illusion would always shatter and if an illusion was all one had to hold….

“Captain, a moment of your time, please,” a ranger respectfully asked Faramir and Faramir nodded to him with a friendly smile.

“Yes,” with a warm smile at Legolas and an even wider at Aragorn he said, “We shall meet before the battle when Boromir calls us.”

Faramir left with the ranger, talking to him as they did so and soon Faramir was back around the rangers, looking at ease there and the rangers looked ready to defend him to the last man.

“His men loves him,” Legolas remarked, his eyes on Faramir and his band of rangers.

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed, pride in his voice over Faramir’s strength and achievement. He had matured wonderfully and had become the man Aragorn had always known and hoped he could be.

“Yet the rest of the army does not seem to share that assessment yet I still saw them look admiringly at Boromir.” Legolas said with slight confusion and great insight, having watched the passing soldiers as they looked at the two brothers.

“I was a part of the rangers before I left Gondor and the rangers, unlike most of the other parts of the army, have a loose chain of command. It is a smaller and tighter group with a stronger bond to their captain. They often live for a long period of time together in the wilderness far from Minas Tirith. The evil whispers from the palace and court about Faramir will not disturb the rangers for they will have seen his true strength,” Aragorn paused for a moment before his went on, needing, wanting, Legolas to know what he knew in his heart and mind, “Do not think that Boromir is not worthy of the army’s praise for I know he is, he already was the day I left.”

Legolas nodded understanding, having always known Boromir meant a lot to Aragorn and not wishing to make him feel like he would have to choose between them. “Shall we go greet the steward?” 

“We shall.”

They left the horses with a soldier and entered the palace side by side. There was no reason to be frightened; there was nothing to fear here. Still, Aragorn’s heart beat faster in his chest, remembering that the last time he had seen Denethor he had whipped and humiliated him.

“A man without fear is a fool; a man with the courage to conquer his fear is a King,” Legolas said softly as their footsteps echoed through the hallway, having thanked no to a guide since Aragorn remembered the way quite well. He mentally told himself to visit Ivea in the kitchen to let the kind woman know he was well.

“Gandalf told me this when I was fighting….” Aragorn let his voice die out, not wishing to say the rest but it echoed in his mind anyway, _fighting the fear this place had put into me_. Gandalf had said such a humiliating and painful experience as the whipping he had gotten would naturally give some trauma and when he had conquered it he would be all the stronger for it. And he had been right. He had fought this once; he had conquered this once. It held no power over him any longer. When he felt the truth of those words all his fears disappeared and he smiled at Legolas, his eyes warm as he looked at him. “Thank you, my friend.”

“My pleasure,” Legolas said with a nod of his head, his eyes warm and understanding.

They reached the door to the throne room and let the guard know how to present them. The guard nodded, saluted and opened the door to the throne room and they stepped inside.

Denethor was seated near the end at a table booming with food. While his sons were preparing for battle; a battle they could die in, the steward was calmly eating a feast. Given his status and age it was acceptable that the steward did not fight in this battle himself but he could, as a father, show more concern than this, more respect than this. But then, the duties of a father, in Aragorn’s’ opinion, had always seemed the hardest for Denethor to get right. Aragorn had to form fists at his side, his fingernails tearing so hard into his skin that they drew blood to keep his temper in check. He had only just seen the man and already he had gotten so under his skin. He had to try and relax.

The past 9 years had not been kind on Denethor. He looked worn and old, his long hair filled with grey. His eyes seemed harder and colder, his movements as he tore a piece of chicken off the bird seemed almost violent. More than age had done this and unlike Boromir’s change, Aragorn did not contribute the change in the steward to guilt or stress but something else. Something darker. There was a shadow in the steward, a sinister presence that seemed to echo an inhuman pain and mad reasoning in the man’s eyes.

“My lord Steward,” the guard said, kneeling before him. “May I present Aragorn, adopted son of Lord Elrond of Rivendell and prince Legolas of Mirkwood, son of Thranduil?”

Denethor made a hand movement to indicate he should rise and the guard did so, bowed and then left, the door closing behind him. Denethor had a handful of older men, most likely generals, waiting in the back of the room, having moved to give the newly arrived guests some privacy in which to address the steward.

Both Aragorn and Legolas made a respectful nod with their heads at him; kneeing was not required of royalty and through Elrond Aragorn could now claim this, another reason why he was grateful for Elrond taking him in and letting him call himself his son.

“My long missing protégé and an elf. I always thought Boromir’s assurance that he had banded you from Gondor and thus made sure you would never again walk these halls were not quite true,” Denethor said coldly yet with more control than Aragorn would have given him credit for. Or maybe just more than he would have preferred as his control then in return demanded the same from him.

“Lord steward, we send greetings from our nations and our fathers and wish to talk about reforming an alliance between our nations and Gondor,” Aragorn said, keeping his voice calm and forcing himself to relax, his hands uncurling. While they were here to see how Gondor and Mordor were faring an alliance had been an option they had the power and the permission to form.

“No, I do not believe this is the reason you are here,” Denethor said with a frown and both Legolas and Aragorn froze, unsure of what he might do now. Then Denethor waved a hand and shook his head before he added in a lighter tone, “Yet never mind. Never it be said Gondor did not do as society’s rules dictates. You can stay at the palace for the mandatory week required I give ambassadors but, ” he added, his tone now darker, “after that you leave and never come back.”

Denethor could not risk having Aragorn so close…and a cursed Elf as well! They could be spies…out to destroy Gondor…And Aragorn out to steal his throne and ruin Gondor. No, they had to leave as soon as he could throw them out without risking war with either of the Elven Kingdoms to which they had ties. It was the only way to be safe…to keep Gondor safe!

  
“Thank you, lord Steward,” Legolas said since he could see Aragorn was too upset to reply.

Denethor didn’t seem to hear him, his eyes on Aragorn, an almost hopeful look in his eyes. “Mayhap with you here my youngest son will actually try and make an attempt to at least look like a soldier since he always did seem to think so highly of you.”

“He holds his brother in higher regard than me and I have no doubt Faramir is a great warrior,” Aragorn said as calmly as he could.

“Your blind faith always was touching. Wrong, annoying, misleading…but kind of touching,” Denethor said with a small patronizing laugh.

“If your lordship will excuse us…it has been a long journey,” Legolas broke in before Aragorn could say something, from his stiff posture and tight lips something angry which would land them in trouble.

“Of course. Such frail a being as an elf would need to rest after every ride I would assume…much like a pregnant woman,” Denethor commented with something between disgust and sympathy, looking at Legolas’ frail looking body. Compared to Aragorn and any Gondorian male, and even most females, Legolas looked as fragile in built as a fine crystal statue.

“With your leave,” Legolas said evenly, not letting the man’s words get to him. He knew what he had done; that he had accomplished great deeds in his years, and was at peace with himself. He had no need to prove his worth or manhood to Denethor or anyone else.

Denethor made a dismissive hand movement. “You can leave.”

With one last bow they quickly did so.

“So, this is Denethor,” Legolas observed when they were out in the hallway, the door safety shut behind them.

“This was why I did not wish you to come along. I am sorry he offended you.”

“I am not offended and you need not apologize for his words; you are not even kin to him.”

“I know.”

“Yet he is a man and therefore you still feel a connection,” Legolas guessed.

Aragorn did not reply, just kept walking, instinctively back towards the room that had been his all those years ago. During his years in Rivendell he had been raised as an elf, been treated as an elf and been expected to know and do as elves did. He had seen the damage mortals could do through immortal eyes and his soul had begun to connect more strongly to an elven identity than a mortal one. To be so cruelly reminded of the darker side of mortals, a race he was a part of, was painful to Aragorn.

“I feel a growing darkness in him,” Legolas warned when they reached the floor where Boromir and Faramir had their rooms and Aragorn saw with pleasure that though his old room was cleaned and empty it stood as if waiting for his return.

“Denethor?” Aragorn asked as they both stood in his old room, Aragorn’s mind distracted by memories and the feeling of nostalgia that hit him at standing here again.

“Yes. And if it is in his blood, the same blood which flows in the veins of the brothers you care so deeply for…” Legolas began softly with concern.

“None of them would fall to shadow,” Aragorn interrupted sharply. Though he had had the same concerns he refused to believe this was possible. Yet he also knew Boromir was walked a thin line. No, he would not fall. He would not let him fall. He would not! He could not.

“I pray not,” Legolas replied softly, not as sure as Aragorn was and like Aragorn his greatest fear was for Boromir.

“This was my bed, take rest here,” Aragorn said after a long silence, not wishing to think more about it as he indicated his old bed, freshly made. He briefly wondered if it had been Faramir or Boromir who had sent a servant to prepare the room.

He knew Legolas did not need the rest but since they had ridden for so long and they were to do battle within a few hours, some sleep could never hurt. “I shall take Faramir’s bed. He will not mind,” Aragorn added.

“You are not hungry?” Legolas asked, still unsure of how much food and rest mortal bodies demanded, even after so many years together with Aragorn in Rivendell.

“I had some bread before we got here from the pack Elrond gave me. Do not worry; though humans eat more than Elves we do not eat **that** much,” Aragorn said warmly and with humour in his eyes as Legolas’ concern made him feel more at ease.

Legolas nodded. “I shall see you for the battle then.”

  
”You shall.”

With that Aragorn went to Faramir’s room and when he laid himself down to rest he slept peacefully at once, a warm smile curving his lips as he refused to think of anything else but the fact that Boromir and Faramir were safe and that he was here with them once more. They were together again and he had his bond brother, Legolas, safe and with him as well. The danger of battle disappeared in the face of these facts; they were all safe…all together and Aragorn would do anything he could to keep it that way.


	17. Visions Of A Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir has visions of a ring.

## Chapter 17: Visions Of A Ring

The battle had been fought mainly around Osgiliath and thanks to Boromir’s clever plan of attack the number of wounded and casualties were minimum.

Legolas and Aragorn had attacked with Boromir despite Aragorn asking if the elf would not attack with the rangers instead since he would be using his bow. The elf had thanked no, wishing to stay close to his bond brother so he would be able to defend him if need be.

Faramir’s leadership and command of the rangers had probably been the turning point of the fight. In his command Faramir was compassionate, level-headed but strong and unquestioning, so unlike the way he was around in particular his father. These men were his responsibility and if one fell or was wounded Faramir felt the pain as if it was his own which was one of the reasons why his men loved him so much.

After the battle Boromir’s first concern had been to find his brother and as soon as he had seen him alive and well Boromir had shined as if seeing the sun for the first time in months and given him a warm embrace. When they had separated Boromir had seen Legolas and Aragorn just behind Faramir and had smiled at them and clasped both hands, his eyes warm when on Aragorn and he had thanked Legolas for his help in battle, thanking Aragorn as well with less formal words. However, Aragorn had found himself longing to touch Boromir, just to assure himself he was real and unharmed. Yet he knew he could not, so he had simply smiled back. Faramir however, did not have such restraints and had given Aragorn a warm and heartfelt embrace when he had seen he was well. His eyes still shore with admiration and fascination when he looked at Legolas and he had given the elf a formal but warm handshake in happiness of seeing him well.

Then there was time for nothing else as the screams of the dead and dying that lay all around them demanded their attention. Aragorn begun to help with the wounded while Faramir had gone to see to his rangers and Boromir had begun to organize the army for defence of Osgiliath and how to distribute the soldiers after the battle.

Faramir had lost a handful of rangers and a few were wounded. He had brought one of the wounded to Aragorn for healing but the ranger had been too far gone to save and it had broken Aragorn’s heart to see the agony on Faramir’s face as he accepted this. Faramir had simply sat down beside the dying ranger, holding his hand and stroking his hair with a gentle touch as he spoke calmly and softly until the ranger drew his last breath. Yes, Aragorn had seen well why the rangers cared so much for the strong yet emotional leader. His concern for his men was evident in everything he did.

Despite Faramir’s valiant contribution to the battle then when the smoke had cleared and after Boromir had given an inspiring speech, waving Gondor’s flag high on the broken wall of the Osgiliath, Denethor still did not have just one kind word to his youngest. Aragorn had been focused on helping with the wounded, Legolas assisting him, but Denethor’s arrival had been obvious to all. His scream of joy at seeing Boromir could almost wake the dead. Aragorn had watched as Faramir had seen them embrace, remaining in the background, apparently used to being ignored. Boromir made a half-hearted attempt to give Faramir credit for some of the battle’s success when he spoke with his father but was apparently used to it being useless. Finally, after a few biting remarks from Denethor which obviously hurt Faramir as much as ever, Boromir exploded in that quiet way of his, asking his father to back off before he left to speak to one of his officers. Faramir had quickly left and returned to his rangers and Denethor had returned to the citadel, ignoring the looks Aragorn, Legolas and every other soldier nearby had been giving the public family dispute.

It had taken almost two days before all the wounded had been returned to the Healing Houses in Minas Tirith, all the dead buried, all the bodies of the dead Orcs burned, the defence of Osgiliath set up and the army divided into new positions once more.

Boromir, Faramir, Legolas and Aragorn had not slept for those 2 days and had gone directly to bed as soon as they had reached the citadel where Legolas had been given a room next to Aragorn’s.

A scream awoke Aragorn from his sleep and faster than human feet could carry, Legolas stood by his side, looking worried at him. Despite being dressed in only tights and his long blond hair was unbrained and loose he still managed to look worried and dignified at the same time.

“Estel. Are you well?” he asked concerned, his vision able to penetrate the darkness the night cast Aragorn’s room in.

Aragorn nodded as he sat up in bed, running a hand over his eyes and loose shoulder length hair to awake fully. The fright the scream had given him lessened in the face of Legolas’ calm and at hearing the loved Elven nickname. The name, meaning hope, had been given to him by Elrond, as a symbol for all the dreams he saw in his adopted son, the human elf. “Yes. It was not I.”

  
Aragorn had barely finished his sentence when another scream echoed through the room.

“There are two voices,” Legolas observed at the same time Aragorn did.

“Boromir and Faramir!” Aragorn realized with dread and was out of bed and beside Faramir’s bed faster than it should have been possible for a human to get up, uncaring that he was dressed only in the long white nightshirt and underwear Boromir had lent him.

He saw though that he had not been fast enough. Boromir, dressed only in tight pants made for sleeping, stood at Faramir’s bedside.

While Aragorn’s back bore the evidence of his whipping as small fine white scars Boromir’s body bore several scars from battle and from the dangerous and hard practice he had received since childhood. It didn’t escape Aragorn’s notice or that both his wrists bore evidence of faint scars, as did his lower arms. They were placed just so that the leather armbands with the White Tree he normally wore would cover them. He had to force himself not to stare at the scars or otherwise give his sympathetic concern away.

“Little One, are you well?” Boromir asked concerned as he sat on Faramir’s bedside, his voice soft but worried.

Faramir sat up in bed, trying to shake the nightmare off him, his front hair plastered to his forehead and he ran a shaking hand through his damp hair, trying to regain his posture.

“I am.”

Everyone in the room visibly relaxed.

“What happened?” Aragorn asked worried.

Faramir cast his brother a meaningful and concerned look before he said, “It was the dream again.”

“What dream?” Aragorn asked with a frown, not liking Faramir’s serious and worried expression.

Boromir shook his head but was unable to hold Faramir’s gaze. “It means nothing, little brother.”

“You know it does. You know I have this gift…a gift I share with you,” he insisted.

Boromir seemed hesitant and made an evading hand movement. “Yet this dream…it cannot be real.”

“I wish it was not yet my dreams have never been wrong before and now you share this dream as well; it cannot become more powerful than this,” Faramir said softly, sadly.

“What gift do you possess?” Aragorn asked confused, feeling the pain of the missing years heavily in his lack of knowledge.

“When Faramir turned 12 we discovered we have the power to share dreams, premonitions, and that we sometimes could sense if each other were wounded or in distress if we were in close physical proximity to each other,” Boromir told him.

“The more serious the forewarning is, the more painful and often the dream will occur,” Faramir continued the explanation.

“And if I understand it then you share this dream with Boromir?” Aragorn asked while Legolas remained standing behind him, watching the exchange intensely.

“Yes,” Faramir nodded. “I can receive visions on my own but so far they have all, one way or another, been connected to Boromir.”

“The bond of brothers,” Legolas said softly, thinking of Elrond’s twin sons who shared a similar strong bond of brotherhood. All eyes fell on him in question and he elaborated, “Brothers whose souls are connected become as if one in spirit. This means their destinies, their very being, intertwine. When this happens two lives become one. The brother most prone to accept the value of dreams will be able to see a possible future for his brother and himself, drawing power from his brother. If this vision is very important it will be shared by both.”

  
“Seems reasonable,” Faramir agreed after having considered the Elf’s words for a few seconds.

“Let us say this is so,” Boromir said with a frown, not sure he believed Legolas but was unable to explain it any other way despite being weary of anything magical, “yet this dream must still be just that; a dream. Not a premonition.”

  
“What is the dream about? What about it frightens you so?” Legolas asked softly.

Boromir gave him a sharp look but then realized the elf meant no disrespect and backed off, his gaze and posture softening.

“In my dream…I burn,” Faramir said softly, lowering his eyes to look at his hands lying on top of the covers.

“What do you mean?” Aragorn asked shocked, fighting the urge to embrace Faramir and swear he would keep him safe. _He is no longer a child_ , Aragorn sternly reminded himself. That he recalled him as such, still thought of him as such, did not have anything to do with how things really were. Whether he liked it or not Faramir had grown up without him, had been fine without him. He had not needed him to survive and grow and that knowledge gave him equal pain and pride.

“My father makes a funeral pyre and burns me alive,” Faramir said softly, his voice shaking as well as his hands. Boromir laid a hand over Faramir’s on the bed, tightening his grip so he stopped his shaking.

“He would never do this and if it came to it…I would never let it happen,” Boromir vowed seriously, their eyes meeting.

“You will not be there to stop him, brother,” Faramir said softly, sadly, their eyes holding each other captive in an intense grip, “you know this.”

  
Boromir shook his head stubbornly yet agony was flashing in both brothers’ eyes. “That is but a nightmare; a fear. Nothing more.”

The silence was deafening and could cut glass until Aragorn shattered it, “What do you see?” he asked softly, almost afraid to ask. He thought little of Denethor as a father but he had to agree with Boromir; this seemed too extreme, too cruel, even for Denethor.

“A darkness, a shadow. It grows. There is a ripple….there is a golden ring. I see my brother fight…I see him fall,” Faramir said heartbroken.

“Can you see where?” Aragorn asked with more desperation than the situation called for but dread crept over him at the mere thought of losing Boromir. He couldn’t lose him now…not when he had just found him again. When he finally had his family back together and bigger, more complete than when he had left Gondor all those years ago with the addition of Legolas, Arwen, Elrond and all the other Elves he had come to love as family. He recalled Gandalf’s words about educating a King and his steward…He had almost forgotten; wishing to forget, wanting it to be false. Yet this was too much of a coincidence for his taste.

Faramir nodded. “Far from here. On a plain neither he nor I have ever walked.”

“Yet if Boromir is kept safe so are you as Boromir’s demise precedes your own?” Legolas asked with worry yet hope and Faramir nodded.

“That is how I see it; yes.”

“You said yourself when we spoke of this earlier that a ring of gold is the key. There are no golden rings here so there is no reason for concern,” Boromir said in a voice meant to calm them all as well as himself. He would not fail; he could never fail and thus Faramir would be kept safe. That was all that mattered. 

“Mayhap the ring of gold is a wedding band,” Legolas suggested. “Though Elves need no such physical reminder to recall a lover I hear some mortals do.”

“A golden band is given to the girl and was in the old days a sign of ownership so other men knew the girl was already owned,” Boromir explained. “I have no fiancée and neither does Faramir so this is not a wedding band.”

“The ring could be any ring and belong to anyone coming into contact with you, any of you,” Aragorn suggested, looking at each brother with concern. After a moment of concentration he asked, “Does the steward have a ring he might hand you?”

  
“There is a ring given when a new steward takes the rule yet this ring is not golden,” Boromir told him.

“We should be careful all the same,” Faramir said.

“Careful as in protect your father?” Aragorn asked with a raised brow. This did not sit well with him. Not that he was prone to slay the man but he was not protecting the man who had beaten him within an inch of his life either. He owned allegiance to Rivendell now and was no longer honour bound to protect Gondor’s steward.

“If the ring can not pass to my brother without his life being at risk then this is what we must do; yes,” Faramir said determined, nodding.

“This is folly,” Boromir said as he rose from Faramir’s bed and shook his head. “We are all guessing in east and west.”

  
“One thing is certain,” Aragorn began softly, seriously, trying hard to hide his worry and his desire to lock Boromir up somewhere in the palace to be certain he would not be harmed, “If Boromir’s fall is on a land he has not yet walked on then he may never go anywhere he has not been at this point.”

“I have been to most parts of Gondor. As the threat from Mordor grows there is little reason for me to go anywhere I have not yet been,” Boromir protested, fighting to kill the small voice that insisted that if Faramir had seen this threat then it was real.

  
”So you agree to stay?” Faramir pleaded, his voice and eyes hopeful. “Please, brother. I cannot lose you.”

Boromir smiled fondly down at him, his eyes warm as he tousled his hair. “Very well. I shall not go where I have not been.”

“Thank you,” Faramir said seriously as Boromir drew back and reached out his arms and Boromir moved forward and let himself be hugged, hugging Faramir back, his embrace warm and soft.

As Boromir drew back and rose from Faramir’s bedside he saw everyone’s worried eyes on him almost as if they were afraid he would fall dead to the floor right this minute and he tried a calming smile. “I am not made of glass.” He gave a dismissive hand gesture and said with more strength in his voice, “Everyone, go back to bed. We will debate this more tomorrow.”

Aragorn nodded but as Boromir with one last calming smile at Faramir went to the door to his room, Aragorn put a hand on his arm, stopping him. Boromir looked from Aragorn’s hand on his arm to his eyes, a puzzled look on his face. Aragorn released his hold on him as he spoke softly, his eyes intense and almost pleading on Boromir as he tried to find words that would convey just a fraction of what he was feeling, “More than your brother will mourn you should you perish. Do not let pride lead you down a path from which no one, not your brother, not me, can save you.”

Boromir looked thoughtful but nodded, giving Aragorn’s arm a reassuring squeeze.

“Though one rarely knows the path being walked until it is too late I shall not fail Gondor, Faramir or you,” Boromir promised solemnly.

Aragorn tried for a smile and looked after Boromir as he walked into his own room before he wished Faramir goodnight and walked into his own, Legolas following him.

“His strength could be his undoing,” Legolas said softly, echoing Aragorn’s thoughts. Boromir’s belief that he was never allowed to break, fail or ask for help could in the end push him too far. His need to excel to the point of harming himself if he felt he had not done well enough, betrayed this clearer than anything else.

“I know.” Despair and pain was in Aragorn’s voice and face as he said this.

There was a silence before Legolas said softly, his eyes knowing, “ You really care for him, do you not?”

“I love him,” Aragorn said, knowing this was true, having no trouble admitting what he had known for so long. From his great loss he had resurrected a new family and this family he would keep; he would not stand before another grave. He could not even bare the thought.

“Do you fear your love may not be enough to keep him safe?” Legolas asked insightfully. 

Aragorn nodded, his expression grim. “I do.”

“He may not be able to recognize love and thus unable to draw streangh from it. Some people drown in a sea…some can drown in well,” Legolas said softly.

Aragorn nodded, knowing what he meant. For a moment they stood in comfortable but troubled silence, neither sure what to say or do.

“I shall leave you to the night,” Legolas said and walked to the door.

Aragorn smiled at him, happy to have a friend, a bond brother, as loyal and insightful as Legolas. “Thank you for standing by me through everything I do.”

  
“I always will, Estel. I always will,” Legolas vowed, giving him a fond smile before he was gone.

“I am then a blessed man,” Aragorn said softly, knowing Legolas’s Elven ears would hear him through the walls.

Despite his worry exhaustion made Aragorn fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

The mention about a ring of gold had stirred something in his memory but he was too tired to hold onto the thought and soon worry and any other emotions or thoughts left him as he slept, unknowing that his two human friends had fallen into similar exhausted sleeps.

Legolas did not find sleep as quickly. He was able to go longer without sleep and the thought of a ring had him frowning in concern. No, it could not be. The thought he was having had to be wrong. What he was thinking was impossible; it could not be what Faramir had meant when he had spoken about a ring. That evil, that threat, was in the past…. it had to be.

Deciding he had to be wrong, it was too terrible to even consider, Legolas let the world dissolve and slept, reassured by the steady heartbeat of his bond brother sleeping next door.


	18. Love As A Weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denethor shows how love can be used as a weapon

## Chapter 18: Love As A Weapon

Aragorn had forgotten how dinner at Minas Tirith with Denethor had been. The ease, grace, elegance and warmth of the meals he had shared with his Elven family, Gandalf and various Elven visitors were lost here.

In his absence everything seemed to have grown darker. The weather, the palace, Denethor, Boromir…even Faramir had changed. Though not darker he seemed more subdued. He no longer tried, as he once had, to reach his father. He would defend his decisions and himself if prompted to do so but always with an air that said he expected defeat. Though Boromir continued his defence of his brother it was more subdued when in front of their father as if he knew his defence would either be useless or make things worse. Still, he could not remain quiet and Aragorn had an even harder time with it. His time in Rivendell had enhanced his sense of justice as well as his self-confidence. Other than common courtesy Denethor had no power over him anymore; he was now not even a citizen of Gondor but belonged to Rivendell. He found himself wishing it were Rivendell he was destined to lead for as it was now Gondor needed a miracle to return to a city of light instead of the city it was now; halfway waiting to be buried in a mass grave and at its darkest times that future seemed a kindness.

“This is a beautiful room,” Legolas said as they were halfway through the meal where very few words had been spoken. With a nod he indicated the tall ceiling, the statues by the walls, the elegance of the decoration in everything from the detailed woodwork on table and chairs to the decorated candleholders on the walls.

They had awakened past noon and had not yet had time to debate the dream Faramir and Boromir had had last night. They had been called to dinner and though Denethor did not seem upset his wit was as sharp as ever, finding any excuse to say a disapproving remark to his youngest and a pleased but demanding one to his oldest.

“It is from the time of Kings. Additions to the palace made by the line of stewards as well as paintings and statues of the stewards are in the east wing,” Boromir replied, feeling the kind remark about the culture he loved so dearly deserved an equally kind reply and Denethor didn’t seem to be supplying any but was simply nodded at Legolas’ words as if such praise was to be expected.

The room was indeed grand as it had always been but it did not help to ease the tense atmosphere. Boromir sat at his father’s right side, his brother beside him. Protocol dictated the guests to be seated on the opposite side and Legolas had seen the dark look that had passed between Denethor and Aragorn and had wordlessly seated himself next to the steward, Aragorn beside him. Aragorn had given him a grateful smile but the distance had not stopped the two men from sparring with words in the few sentences they had said to each other. Legolas, having no feelings involved in this, had tried all evening to keep the conversation light and polite. 

“I hear you lost seven rangers and twenty were wounded. That is an unacceptable high number for such a small battle,” Denethor reproved, his eyes on Faramir, turning the conversation back to scorn or praise on the battle, depending on which son he was addressing.

Faramir nodded, lowing his head. “Yes, father.” The guilt and pain he had felt over the loss was clear in his voice and at his father’s words those emotions returned full force.

Boromir tensed and Aragorn did likewise as Denethor went on. “I thought you could at least command the rangers but mayhap I overestimated your abilities…again.”

Faramir winced as if hit. None of the rangers should have died but they had. Faramir was beating himself up over this fact and was beginning to wonder if not his father was right in his statement. If Boromir or anyone else could have prevented the death of his men he would gladly relinquish command this very moment to prevent such things from happening again. “I apologize, father.”

“Faramir followed my orders. If those orders led his men into distress the fault is mine,” Boromir said evenly, taking the guilt and blame upon himself. The loss of men was his burden to bear and his disgust with his failure at bringing everyone safely back could be seen in the white bandage covering his right wrist, his own way of punishing himself for mistakes and shortcomings in himself that he found unforgivable.

Aragorn cast Boromir a concerned look, having been saddened to see the white bandage around his wrist when they had met to go to dinner. He wished he could do something to assure Boromir it wasn’t his fault and that he didn’t and never had deserved punishment for what was out of his control.

Denethor gave Boromir a displeased look before he said, “Are you not too old to cover his mistakes like this? How is he to ever become a man when you keep pampering him like a child?”

Aragorn saw the look of doubt in Boromir’s eyes and he knew he, now as always, was afraid his love and protection of Faramir did just that while Faramir blushed in embarrassment.

“Cruelty does not make one a man; the absence of it does,” Aragorn said softly, raising his eyes from his plate to look Denethor in the eyes, his stare strong and unyielding.

Denethor smiled darkly as if finding his statement very amusing. “Is that so?” He turned to look at Faramir. “Boy, get up and walk to the fire pit over there,” he nodded to one of several basins which stood raised to stand at the height of a man’s stomach by four metal legs. The basins were also metal and were as large as a man’s embrace, filled with warm kohl to keep the dining room warm. “Put your hand into the fire and let it stay there till I tell you otherwise,” Denethor went on, his voice now almost emotionless as if ordering Faramir to go to his room.

“What?!” Aragorn yelled in disbelief and shock. He could not be serious! As a son, as a Gondorian Faramir would have to obey the command or look a coward or a traitor.

“Father, you cannot mean this,” Boromir protested, looking shocked at his father, his face gone white. He had to fight the instinct that told him to take Faramir by the arm and drag him out of the room and far away but he also knew that such an action would do him no favours. Besides, Faramir would not take kindly to being forced into the role of a coward, not even for a brother’s love.

Denethor’s eyes remained on Faramir who looked devastated at the command but not shocked. He had known that his father would demand a proof of his alliance, of his love, of his worth, sooner of later. It was the fact that his own father doubted him that had him fighting tears more than the prospect of pain the order he had been given would bring him.

“I will not have either cowards or weaklings in my family!” Denethor said strongly when the realization of what was about to happen had made Faramir freeze in his seat.

Faramir stood up slowly, his gaze remaining on Denethor as he spoke softly, his eyes fighting back tears, “To you that is all I have ever been; an embarrassment to you and the stewards before you. I pray to the Valar that one day…you will think kinder of me.”

“Faramir!” Boromir protested, his eyes anguished as his hand caught a hold of Faramir’s arm, stopping him as he was to move away from the table and towards the fire pit. Despite what his mind told him then his heart would not let him sit still while Faramir hurt in any way.

Faramir looked down at him and smiled warmly. “It is alright, brother,” he said softly and gently released Boromir’s grip on his arm before he resumed his walk, all eyes on his retreating back.

“Faramir, don’t! Your pain will mean nothing to him,” Aragorn yelled after him as he rose and quickly walked around the table, intent on stopping him.

As he was to pass Denethor’s chair the steward was out of his chair, gripped Aragorn’s arm and backhanded him with such force that Aragorn was forced a step backwards.

“Do not stop my son now that I have such hopes that he will do right by me,” Denethor sneered, a hint of pride at his youngest in his voice.

“Hey!” Boromir protested, having risen from his chair, not sure what to but unable to sit still while Aragorn was being manhandled. He still had terrible nightmares about Aragorn’s whipping and he knew he could not let that happen as second time, no matter what the consequences might be.

“Do not touch my bond brother again,” Legolas warned softly but deadly, having raised as well and was now standing beside Aragorn though not touching him, having learnt that humans had a complex relationship with pride and accepting help.

Aragorn massaged his injured cheek as he turned back to look at Denethor and took the step forward the unexpected blow had forced him to retreat more in surprise than pain. “I see years has only increased your madness,” he said calmly, darkly.

Denethor’s face darkened in anger and his hand shut out, intent to strike him across the face again but Aragorn was faster and gripped his wrist hard, stopping the hand mid-air. “I will let you get away with that once on account on the generosity you showed me by taking me in all those years ago.” He released Denethor’s hand who simply stared angrily at him. “Do not raise your hand at me again for I shall not let it pass a second time,” he added calmly but deadly.

“How dare…” Denethor began furiously when a soft whimper followed by Boromir’s loud grasp interrupted them.

“Fara!” Boromir yelled and was at his side at once; cursing himself for his temporally distraction that his concern for Aragorn had brought him which had meant he had forgotten his brother.

Everyone’s eyes turned to see Faramir standing with his right hand over the glowing kohl, his face a study of suppressed pain. His brow was sweaty, his face a grimace, his eyes watery and he was biting his lower lip till it bled to keep from screaming.

“Retrieve your hand,” Boromir demanded as he reached his younger brother and tried to pull his hand away but Faramir shook his head, sweat running down his forehead, pain in every line of his face.

“I…I… cannot,” he gasped, agony in his hoarse voice.

Boromir turned furious eyes on his father. “Release him from this insane command at once!”

Denethor’s eyes darkened. “You dare to command me?!” he asked angrily, surprise and shock in his voice.

Without a second thought, his entire being focused on Faramir and the agonized small sounds he was making, Boromir dropped to his knees behind his brother, his eyes on his father. “I **beg** you to release him,” he asked quietly.

Aragorn was shocked to see Boromir on his knees but Faramir’s anguished breath made him realize why he was doing this. They could force Faramir away but he wanted to do this; wanted to prove himself to his father and would not forgive them if they stole this moment from him with their concern.

“Please, steward. Release him,” Aragorn asked of him, his voice soft and subdued while Legolas looked from Faramir to Boromir to Aragorn and finally at Denethor, not sure if speaking or staying silent was the best cause of action to aid the kind hearted mortal and his bond brother. Recalling Denethor’s ill veiled contempt towards him he thought it best to hold his tongue…for now at least.

Boromir cast Aragorn a grateful look before his eyes returned to Denethor, remaining on his knees, fighting back his urge to simply force Faramir away from the fire.

Denethor seemed overwhelmed by the reaction but then he waved an irritated hand. “Fine. He is released.”

Faramir drew his hand back at once and Boromir rose and looked Faramir’s hand over, holding it gently between both of his. It was red and pained but the skin had not broken. It would be painful for days but would leave no permanent scars. Boromir drew a deep and relieved breath.

“He will be alright in a few days,” Boromir said over his shoulder to Aragorn who nodded relieved.

“Thank the Valar,” Aragorn mumbled.

Boromir guided his brother out of the room, supporting him with an arm around his waist. Everyone’s eyes were on them, the room quiet except for Faramir’s pained breath and the echo of their steps. Before they reached the door Boromir turned to look at his father, “with your leave, Sire?”

There was a coldness in Boromir’s stare which surprised Aragorn as much as Denethor and the steward simply nodded, too shocked and surprised by his oldest distance and closed look to do anything else. “Go.”

“With your leave we shall retire as well,” Legolas said softly as the door had closed behind the brothers, leaving the room in a state of surreal shock.

Denethor nodded and suddenly looked very lost and sad as if he felt he had lost the last thing that had kept him hanging on to the thin thread of hope he had seen dimming more and more by each day.

Aragorn and Legolas made a quick exit, relieved to be away from Denethor, and caught up with Faramir and Boromir in the hallway, steering towards their rooms.

“We need herbs, bandages, water…and some alcohol,” Boromir said as he supported an exhausted and only half conscious Faramir, his pain having left him dazed and light headed.

“I shall get it,” Legolas said and separated from the others to go towards the kitchen that Aragorn had pointed out to him earlier when Aragorn had went there to visit Ivea.

“He went too far this time,” Boromir said softly as he supported Faramir up the stairs, Aragorn coming up so he could support Faramir from the other side. Faramir now had an arm around each man’s shoulder but still fought to walk as upright as he could but his face was sweaty and his eyes glassy. He needed water and he needed rest. He was probably still in shock over the whole ordeal. Aragorn could certainly understand that. He himself was still shocked to his core and he had had the darkest outlook on Denethor of any of them and still this had shocked him. He could only imagine what it must have done to Boromir who had seen a softer, gentler side to him and Faramir who had always fought so hard to see the best in everyone.

“I would not say this earlier but Legolas told me that he sensed a shadow, a darkness growing in him,” Aragorn said softly in reply to Boromir’s words as they reached Faramir’s room and got him to lie down on his back on his bed. Aragorn drew back so Boromir could carefully get Faramir’s shirt off him before he put the blanket over his body, letting both his arms lie on top of the blanket. Then Boromir sat by Faramir’s bedside, his eyes filled with affection, sympathy and pain as he looked down at his brother who looked many years younger with his pain flushed face, lying between the covers.

“I…I did…I did good, did I not, brother?” Faramir asked weakly, hoarsely, his eyes losing their focus.

Boromir got a lump in his throat and had to fight to be able to speak. “Yeah. You did good,” he said softly, gently stroking his hair, fighting back the tears he could never spill. He had heard his father’s voice too often; tears was a weakness he could never allow himself.

“Here.” Suddenly Legolas was there and he reached Boromir the Whiskey he had gotten from the kitchen, having removed the cork from the half empty bottle before handing it over.

“Drink a little of this. You will feel better,” Boromir promised as he gently lifted Faramir’s head with one hand and put the bottle to his lips with the other. Faramir drank as much as he could and when Boromir felt him draw back he removed the bottle from his lips and gently laid his head back on the pillow once more.

“I…I made…father…proud, did…did I not? I…did…not…Not…coward,” Faramir mumbled, his eyes shutting, willingly slipping away to escape the agonizing thumping in his injured hand.

“Yes. You did good,” Boromir said softly, removing the hand behind his head to stroke his cheek just as Faramir’s eyes closed.

Boromir cast a worried look at Aragorn when he felt Faramir slip away from him and stood up, moving away from the bed. “You know more of the art of healing than I.”

Aragorn was moved by his gesture; happy to know he still held Boromir’s trust despite the years that had passed between them. He seated himself at Faramir’s bedside where Boromir had just been sitting and looked at Faramir’s sleeping form, listening to his breathing and put a hand on his chest under the covers to feel his heart beat. “He was exhausted. It is the shock and the pain. He is in no danger,” he said relieved, looking over his shoulder at Boromir while he spoke.

“Good,” Boromir said relieved, running a hand through his hair.  
  


“Give me the bottle and I shall cleanse his hand and bandage it,” Aragorn requested and Boromir wordlessly handed it to him.

Legolas and Boromir watched him work, handing him the things he needed when he requested them but other than that the room was quiet yet tense, as if everyone were expecting something bad to happen.

“He went too far,” Boromir repeated his earlier words, his voice soft and pained as he looked at Faramir’s damaged hand. “I never thought he would go this far, use Faramir’s love like this.”

There was no reason to name names, they all knew who he meant. “You feared it, mayhap even knew it…you just did not wish to see it,” Aragorn said softly as he worked on Faramir’s bandage.

“There is nothing harder than to admit you were reaching for the unreachable….that there is no way to win,” Legolas said just as softly as he laid a calming hand on Boromir’s shoulder, praying the mortal would not take offence. Despite his many years Legolas was still not able to tell when it was all right to offer help and support and when a mortal’s pride would demand he refuse it.

Boromir nodded with agonized thoughtfulness, forgetting his resentment of Legolas, in the face of what had just happened it seemed unimportant. Legolas removed his hand again as Boromir spoke once more.

“He was not always like this….” Boromir’s voice was soft, almost nostalgic as he remembered happier times, not sure who he was defending with the statement, his father or himself.

  
“If it helps I do not believe your father is himself. As the years have passed he has fallen deeper into shadow and I fear madness has finally taken over,” Aragorn said sympathetically and turned to look at him and Legolas after he had bandaged Faramir’s hand and had laid it gently on top of the covers.

“It seems clear now that the danger to your brother is real,” Legolas said softly. “If tonight is any indication…it might not be unthinkable that your father when pushed far enough would do as Faramir dreamt,” Legolas went on, his voice grim and worried, saying what they had all been thinking but been too afraid to voice.

“I can protect him,” Boromir insisted strongly, almost desperately. He could not lose Faramir; he had already lost Aragorn. He was here now, true, but he had Legolas and Rivendell and he would soon be gone again, leaving him to face the world alone. If he lost Faramir he would have nothing left.

“Also from himself?” Legolas asked kindly. “For it is his love, his eagerness to gain just one word of approval from your father which might prove to be your greatest challenge,” Legolas warned.

“I **can** protect him,” Boromir insisted hotly but even he could hear the desperation in the words instead of the certainty he had wanted.

“You might be able to for some time but your father is growing more and more irrational. So far he has found excuses for the reason for your defence of Faramir. What happens the day he decides your defence is a betrayal of him? You seem to be the centre of his world…such a betrayal, real or imagined, could foster a rage in him which outcome can only be disastrous,” Aragorn cautioned, frowning in concern as he stood and Boromir took his place at Faramir’s bedside, looking down at Faramir’s sleeping form with a soft smile but pain in his eyes.

“I cannot let him go alone yet I cannot leave Gondor defenceless either,” Boromir said, agonized to be forced to choose between the brother he loved and the country he served.

“You will have little choice in the matter,” Legolas said evenly and everyone’s eyes fell on him as he elaborated, “While I was getting the supplies I saw a rider reach the palace and Denethor went to greet him. My hearing extends that of mortals and I could hear the rider whisper to Denethor. He told him that the One Ring has been found and is being brought to Rivendell by Gandalf and some Hobbits, while Elrond has sent his son, Elladan, to Saruman to ask for assistance.”

“The One Ring….” Boromir mumbled, stunned, as he looked at the Elf. He had thought the Ring a legend, a myth of old. Could it be real? Could the Ring be here? Now, in their most desperate hour of need? Was this a sign? The aid, the help, they so desperately needed to defeat the enemies of Gondor?

“That is the ring from Faramir’s vision,” Aragorn realized with dread. Faramir’s visions, or rather Boromir and Faramir’s visions, were more powerful than he had first thought if they had been able to foresee an event none had ever thought would come to pass, not even Elrond.

“How it came to be here, now, none seem to know but it is here. The Ring of legend,” Legolas said seriously.

“The One Ring of power,” Boromir mused before he looked at Legolas and Aragorn in turn.” If we held it but a second we could free Gondor from the threat of Mordor,” he said eagerly.

“No,” Aragorn shook his head in denial, his denial strong and certain. “The Ring is pure evil. It would master the bearer and not the bearer the Ring. It answers only to Sauron and no one but him can wield it.”

Boromir looked disappointed but then considered other options of getting the Ring to Gondor. 

“Even a King or an Elven heart would break before it?” Boromir asked hopefully, nodding to each of them in turn.

“Yes. The Ring must be destroyed,” Legolas said, no doubt in his mind. The risk was too great.

“Your father will surely address this matter tomorrow. Under no circumstances may he send you to Rivendell for this is a land you have not yet walked,” Aragorn said with a concerned frown. He could not and would not lose Boromir. Some events might be predestined, his own line ending up as Kings of Gondor were one, but he refused to believe Boromir’s death was among them.

“He might insist on it. He will want the Ring for Gondor. Of this I am certain,” Boromir warned.

“If he find this deed so important he might not trust his youngest to do it,” Legolas added what Boromir had left unsaid.

“That is a given,” Boromir admitted sadly. He had never been able to understand why his father had not been able to see the valiant and admirable young man in his son that Boromir saw in his brother.

“That does not matter. Tomorrow when we debate this with Denethor we **will** get him to send Faramir to Rivendell no matter what we need to say to get him to reach this point,” Aragorn said with certainty for failure would be unacceptable. It would place both Gondorian brothers in danger, something Aragorn would not allow to happen. No, they **had** to convince Denethor; there was no other way open to them.

“And then you will leave as well, will you not?” Boromir asked softly, sadness in his voice but his eyes remained on Faramir, afraid of what his eyes might reveal should he look at Aragorn. He had just returned, it had been here too short a time for him to try and draw a bit of Aragorn’s light unto himself. It was too little and maybe even too late but still he could not give up trying. Besides Faramir then Aragorn had been the only bright spot in his world and he was unable to let go of him even if all he had held for the last many years had been a ghost that had tormented him by its cold absence. Still, he preferred a ghost to having nothing at all. He fought to keep the wave of depression the thought of losing both at the same time would be like but it was hard, harder than anything else he had ever attempted for both men held a piece of his heart.

“Yes. The Ring must be the reason for the growing threat from Mordor. I…Legolas and I must return,” Aragorn admitted softly, regret and pain in his voice at the words. He had always known he could not remain here but he had no desire to part from Boromir so soon. Yet if not he helped bury the Ring then none would be safe, Boromir, who would remain so close to Mordor, least of all.

“I shall miss your presence,” there was such raw emotions in Boromir’s voice that Aragorn gasped in shock and hope that Boromir’s soul still had light left but before he could respond Boromir had returned his full attention to his brother. “Watch over him for me,” he asked softly, stroking Faramir’s cheek, his eyes and voice soft and filled with sympathy, guilt and unspoken affection. “He has been through so much…so much I could not spare him from.”

“I will. With my life if need be,” Aragorn vowed and laid a comforting hand on Boromir’s shoulder.

Boromir nodded his thanks but inside he was dying. Could he survive without Faramir? He had never tried to before. He had always assumed Faramir would be near, his warmth and love Boromir’s protection and blanket from the coldness of the world. Without it…what would he do without it? Without Faramir, without Aragorn…there were very few people left who could move him and loving a country was mainly a cold and one-sided affair.

Unbeknownst to Boromir Aragorn had similar concerns. Without Faramir Boromir would be without his soul, without his love. Would he be able to withstand the shadow and the darkness that had taken his father? Would the piece of his heart that had not yet frozen be able to withstand the coldness that being left alone would bring?


	19. Leaving Minas Tirith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir leaves with Aragorn

## Chapter 19: Leaving Minas Tirith

That getting Denethor talked into sending Faramir to Rivendell would be hard, they had never doubted. They had just never thought it would be **this** hard.

“With the Ring in my possession Gondor would be kept safe and yet you ask me to send my youngest to fetch this mighty weapon?” Denethor asked with disbelief from where he was seated at the end of the large table in the dining room, eating lunch while Boromir, Legolas, Aragorn and Faramir stood before him, some three steps away from him, near the chair where Faramir normally sat, having thanked no to eat so they could debate this instead.

The two young men and Legolas had decided Faramir needed to be present when they spoke with Denethor and despite being ill, groggy and in pain they had managed to get him dressed and on his feet. Boromir had had him drink as much Whiskey as he dared to help him dull the pain without ending up drunk and Aragorn had made him a sling and had given him a new bandage, making sure he did not move his hand too much as every movement pained him.

“Surely the defence of Gondor is the most important task of all,” Aragorn said, trying not to push, knowing Denethor would be suspicious if he felt they wanted this too much.

“Look at him!” Denethor pointed towards Faramir who barely managed to stand on his feet unaided, his brow sweaty, his eyes glassy. He looked worn, ill and tired. “He can barely stand on his feet!”

  
“Whose fault is that?” Boromir snapped, his eyes cold though his voice was low.

Aragorn cast him a warning look. Since the episode yesterday Boromir had become almost hostile towards Denethor. It was like he had had an epiphany and the choice he had not been able to make for so many years were now clear; he would protect his brother against all his enemies, also his own father. There was no longer any contest. Though his father’s words of praise or words of displeasure still reached his heart, though he still wanted him to love him…he now knew on which side he would stand if it came to that and with that knowledge came clarity and a dark kind of peace.

“What do you say?” Denethor demanded to know and it was not clear from his expression or tone if he had heard Boromir’s words or not.

“The Ring might not have these powers if indeed it is truly the One Ring at all. Would you have your best son fighting far from you, travelling on a fool’s errand?” Aragorn asked, trying for a darker approach and silently asking Faramir for his forgiveness but if this was to work they needed to speak Denethor’s language.

Denethor’s eyes narrowed. “I would not speak too much, man elf, for your credibility is not high with me.” He held up two letters, which had been lying on the table beside his plate. Denethor received much news on the running of Gondor and the three men and the elf had not wondered what they were before now. Both letters had been opened and he continued, his voice dark, “In these letters you put foolish notions in the head of my youngest and worse still…try to corrupt my oldest, twist him to become something he is not; soft and weak and many other things so disgraceful I shall not even name them.”

“You opened the letter Aragorn sent me? My letter?!” Boromir asked shocked and horrified, feeling this as an invasion of his most holy being. Aragorn’s letter had been for his eyes alone and no one else’s. He felt a great sense of loss that his father now knew what Aragorn had written and he still did not, having thought the letter safe in the drawer of his desk in his chamber.

“That you had not opened it give you great credit, my son. However, that you kept it displeases me,” Denethor said, looking at him with a frown.

Faramir weakly searched his shirt and pants pockets with his uninjured hand but then recalled that because Boromir and Aragorn had dressed him he had not gotten his letter with him.

“I need…my letter back,” Faramir got out, his voice pleading as he turning his eyes to his father. That letter had helped him through so much; it had been a part of Aragorn he had managed to keep safe and with him through his absence. At the dark look in Denethor’s eyes he added, “Please. The letter was for me and…and you have no right to it,” he added softly, his words stronger now, not a reproach but simply stating fact.

“Both letters are a disgrace!” Denethor declared harshly and with a swift movement he had stuck them into the fire of the nearest candle on the table and they caught fire at once.

“No!” Faramir and Boromir yelled at once and both took a step towards him but he put the burning letters on a silver tray that the bird he had eaten had been brought in on and they quickly burned out among the bones from the bird. Boromir held out a hand and half supported, half stopped, Faramir from trying to reach the table with an arm around his waist.

Tears were in Faramir’s eyes, confusion and despair clouding his face. “You take everything from me I care for. Why?” he mumbled softly, as puzzled as he was sad.

Aragorn knew he needed to act before the episode could become explosive which was a very likely possibility, with Denethor’s tempter and Boromir’s anger. Besides this then Aragorn feared for Faramir’s health should he sink into despair.

“If you send Boromir to Rivendell he will travel with me the whole time,” Aragorn said evenly, stating a fact. From Denethor’s face he could tell he did not like the sound of that at all, fearing Aragorn would use the time to turn his most beloved son against him.

“Mordor is growing stronger. The army will need a strong leader,” Legolas gave his input and Denethor nodded thoughtfully, probably not realizing Legolas had not said which brother he was thinking of with that statement.

_Why not go for the kill?_ Aragorn thought. “The journey to Rivendell will be a dangerous one. The son you sent might be lost on the way.” It was a mean thing to say and he could see Faramir flinching, knowing which choice that statement would make Denethor take and Aragorn was saddened he had had to say it but if it meant both brothers’ lives then Faramir’s anguish would be worth it.

“Very well. Faramir can go to Rivendell,” Denethor said and the group managed to hide relieved sighs. “However,” Denethor added, giving Faramir a stern look, “I will see you return with the Ring or not at all.”

Faramir’s relief at knowing his brother would be safe pushed back the pain of having his father value his life less than his brother’s. Faramir nodded, his brother’s arm still supporting him. “I shall not fail in my duty as a son of Gondor,” he vowed.

“We shall see,” Denethor simply said, clearly thinking he would. “Now, leave me,” he added, making a dismissive gesture with one hand.

“As you wish,” Legolas said for them all and they all bowed before leaving the room.

Out in the hallway Aragorn went to Faramir’s side at once, helping Boromir support him, holding a hand to his uninjured arm. Away from his father’s eyes Faramir gave in to the pain and he breathed heavily, leaning on Boromir and Aragorn.

“We should let him rest for a few days before you take your leave,” Boromir said concerned, unable to stop the hope this thought of keeping them here a bit longer sprung in his heart.

Aragorn shook his head sadly. “We cannot. Your father could change his mind.”

Boromir hesitated, unwilling to let his brother go but knowing this was not about what he wanted, what anyone wanted. This was about Faramir’s life, his own life…all of their lives.

“Very well. Legolas, pack Faramir’s, Aragorn’s and your own things. Aragorn, look after Faramir for me; prepare his wound for travel. I shall get the horses ready,” Boromir said, taking command as he was used to, forcing his emotions to the back of his mind, refusing to consider the future which was now looking increasingly dark and gloom.

“I will,” Aragorn promised and as Boromir carefully moved away from Faramir, Aragorn took all the younger brother’s weight with an arm around his waist, Faramir’s unhurt arm lying over his shoulder.

Caught up in their tasks none had time to realize the seriousness of the situation until Aragorn, Faramir and Legolas were seated on each a horse in the courtyard, various items in saddlebags. Aragorn had redressed Faramir’s hand and put some healing ointment on it to numb the pain while Legolas had gathered food and clothes for them all and Boromir had prepared the horses. All had worn swords this morning and had dressed for travel and now, with not much light left of the day, they were ready to leave yet something held them caught in the moment, their minds ready to leave yet their hearts were not.

Boromir stood beside Faramir’s horse and looked up at him, forcing himself to smile though his heart was breaking. Faramir looked pained but he held himself well and looked at Boromir with tears glimmering in his eyes. Both brothers knew they might never meet again and both fought to pretend it was not so.

“Safe journey, brother,” Boromir got out through the lump in his throat and Faramir nodded, momentarily unable to speak. They shook hands, warrior style, and Boromir reached a hand up to touch Faramir’s cheek, a light and caring touch mimicking how he had touched him as a young child. “I always knew you would leave me yet this day still comes too soon. In my heart you will always be my little one; my baby brother,” Boromir said softly, warmly though with a hint of sadness and loss. He was really leaving. It still seemed unreal; like a nightmare.

“You were more than my defender and protector. Through the years you were my friend, my brother and my father. You had my love since the day I was born and you shall have it till the day I die,” Faramir whispered heartfelt, his eyes misty.

“That is all I need,” Boromir said, moved, as he drew back, fighting to regain his posture.

“No, it is not but for now it will have to do,” Faramir said softly and Boromir nodded although the words left him a bit puzzled. What more could he want than the love of a brother? It had been all he had ever had and he had felt blessed for it.

Boromir went to stand beside Aragorn’s’ horse, forcing himself to move from Faramir’s side. He gently stroked the horse and it leaned into his touch.

“You brought back my horse to me,” Boromir said softly as he raised his eyes and looked at Aragorn, not sure what he was really trying to say but knew it was more than the words implied.   
  


“Her heart and mine carried us here,” Aragorn said calmly but warmly.

“She will carry you far still. She is more than a horse; she is magical and will never let you down,” Boromir explained what Aragorn surely already knew since the horse was still in its prime despite the passing of the years.

“She is you,” Aragorn commented off handily but sincerely, making Boromir give him a surprised look, not quite sure what Aragorn meant by the comment but he knew it was a compliment so he did not ask. Instead he pulled a little back and got his thoughts back together.

“My brother will now travel far from me. Keep him safe.”

“I will,” Aragorn assured and Boromir nodded and smiled kind of sadly though he was not sure why.

“I can see it now; your years far from here has turned a ranger into a King,” Boromir said softly and Aragorn nodded, knowing the words had a special meaning, a special acceptance, which was precious to them both.

“And you into a true steward of honour and valour.”

Boromir nodded, feeling pride at the words. He wasn’t sure what else to do or say, wishing to keep them here yet knowing he could not, knowing there was no more words to be said.

“May your journey be a successful one,” he wished and was to pass when Aragorn handed him a letter he had had hidden in his shirt. It was not sealed but simply folded a few times. Boromir took it with a questioning look.

“Read this one,” Aragorn requested, his eyes almost pleading and Boromir nodded, unsure of why this was so important to the older man but if it was he would do it.

“I will.”

Aragorn nodded and Boromir went to Legolas and offered his hand, which he took.

“Take care of them,” he asked softly. Whatever resentment he had felt for Legolas was now gone; he knew now he had feared losing a brother’s love but he saw that Aragorn’s heart was big enough to hold them both. But even if this had not been so then the Elf would travel with his brother and Aragorn and if he would protect them then Boromir could never think ill of him in any way. No matter how much he wished someone to blame for the loss of his brother and Aragorn then he knew it could never again be someone who had nothing to do with it.

“I shall,” the elf promised and Boromir nodded. He stepped aside so he was not in the way of the horses.

“Fare well,” he wished and Aragorn nodded and touched his horse’s flank with his booted feet to get it to move and Legolas followed. Faramir remained still for a second and cast Boromir one last look and Boromir again attempted a smile but it was a broken one. Then Faramir made his horse move as well, smiling encouraging but sadly at Boromir, afraid this would be the last time he would ever gaze upon his brother.

“I shall bring her back to you,” Aragorn promised, echoing words he had spoken earlier, turning his head to look at Boromir who grinned, the tension of the day, the danger of Denethor changing his mind, making it easy.

“I know.” It was easy to pretend he did know this. It was what he wanted to believe.

“We shall **all** return, brother,” Faramir vowed and Boromir nodded, emotions whelming up in him.

“I know,” he whispered so softly the three riders would not have heard, not even Legolas.

Boromir stood and watched as the riders disappeared from the palace and through the city. He stood on the city wall and watched them ride as fast as the wind across the plains and away from Minas Tirith, taking his heart with them, his very soul.

When the horizon had swallowed the riders Boromir remained standing where he was. It was as if he remained here he did not have to deal with them being gone. He did not even have to think.

As the last light of the day was dimming Boromir shook his head and forced himself to focus on the present once more. There was much work to be done on Gondor’s defence and hopefully the war would keep his mind busy so he would not have to think too much about anything else.

He did not want to think of Faramir being gone, that he could be injured on the journey or maybe even die, too far from him to be able to sense it through their mental link. He did not wish to think the same about Aragorn. He did not wish to think of his father whom he had more conflicted emotions towards than ever, especially now that Faramir had gone and with his leaving the cause for a lot of his anger and resentment towards his father had gone as well. He did not wish to think of the fate of Gondor or all of Middle Earth or Faramir’s fate or his own fate for that matter for he saw little hope, little light. Was everything to fall to ruin? Was all lost? All hope gone?

At these thoughts he felt a shadow, a darkness nearing his heart, a coldness invading it and to keep his mind occupied on something else he opened Aragorn’s letter and read it.

_Boromir,_

_You live in my heart, the brother I never had._

_Let my love keep the light in you alive._

_Yours,_

_Aragorn_

The words were simple; the letter was simple yet they filled Boromir with a sense of peace and warmth he had rarely known. He knew he loved Aragorn, maybe he had always known, yet he had never dared to admit it. Now, seeing Aragorn’s words he could admit it. He had been afraid to get attached, to love only to lose, to appear weak in the face of his emotions but now he found he did not have to fear either. Aragorn’s words were a gift, uncomplicated and direct, releasing him from having to say in words what his heart had known for so long; he had two brothers now whom he would die or kill for equally, whatever the situation demanded.

Boromir smiled as he looked out towards where Aragorn had disappeared and he felt the shadow being held at bay by the light Aragorn’s words had ignited in his heart and for now…for now that was enough.

“Thank you, my friend,” Boromir whispered softly into the darkness.

No matter what might happen, whether they met again or not, then at least he had had this; one moment of peace of mind, feeling the bond of family and brotherhood, of love given unconditionally and free.

As the months passed, through battles, blood and news of growing threats, whenever Boromir felt the shadow draw near he would reread the letter, always carrying it with him and he would smile. That smile would ignite the light within and the shadow was kept at bay.

Yet time passed, one day after another, always bringing bad news, making hope hard to keep. The darkness drew closer and Boromir was forced to watch his father slip further into the despair that threatened to take his soul as well.

He fought to keep a flicker of hope, remembering his brother’s love, rereading Aragorn’s letter yet it was hard to light a fire in an icy wasteland. He knew he would fall if not the tides of the war turned soon, if not he saw his brother or Aragorn again yet he fought with everything he had to keep the shadows at bay. For now believing in dreams and embracing ghosts would have to be enough…it was all he had while he feverishly prayed good news would arrive soon…before it was too late. Too late for Gondor and too late for him.


	20. The Council Of Elrond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir and Aragorn are present at the Council Of Elrond as the Fellowship is formed.

## Chapter 20: The Council Of Elrond

Despite the threat of Orcs and Faramir’s sadness at leaving Boromir behind he recovered quickly under Aragorn’s healing hands on the way to Rivendell.

Within a few days Faramir was questioning Legolas about everything under the sun and had even talked the elegant Elf into letting him touch his pointed ears that had fascinated him so much, earning them both a heartfelt laugh from Aragorn.

Faramir worried that Boromir might be hurt facing the forces of Mordor but Aragorn was more worried for his soul. Boromir was a great warrior and Aragorn had every faith in his skills in that area. What was troubled him was if he lost hope. Would the same darkness that had claimed Denethor take Boromir? Would his letter really be enough to prevent this? He had meant the words; he always had; yet he feared he might have voiced them clearly too late. For now though there were bigger concerns and their attention was forced to stay focused on the task at hand.

Though Legolas had explained the ways of the Elvenrace in detail to Faramir the young man had still gasped in awe and joy when Rivendell had come into view. Once in Rivendell Faramir had been like a child having been giving permission to sample everything from the kitchen at a winter feast. He wanted to see everything there was to see in the beautiful Elven city, meet every Elf there was. Legolas introduced him to the ways of the Elves while Aragorn introduced him to the beautiful princess Arwen and her beauty and sweetness charmed him and they become friends at once, their kind hearts and gentle spirits connecting them. He listened to the various Elven dialects, trying to understand them, he looked at their clothes, their bearing, the houses and the horses. He loved the gardens and the serenity of the place. He was even more overjoyed when he found there were also four Hobbits staying here as well as Gandalf, who had brought the Hobbits safely here although with some difficulties due to some run-ins with some Orcs.

Faramir had fallen upon Pippin and Merry in the garden and had fast become friends with them, intrigued by their cheerful outlook on life and charmed by their innocence. He had also had a happy reunion with Gandalf, embracing him like he had done as a child and Gandalf had been happy to see one of his favourite students again.

With Elrond’s help Faramir’s hand healed completely and only some faint discolouring and faint, small, fine, white scars were left as evidence of the test of his love. Despite the pain and the scars Faramir did not regret his actions. For that one moment, to hear that one flicker of pride in his father’s voice, it had all been worth it.

Elrond had called various people to Rivendell to decide on the fate of the Ring but had tried to delay the meeting until his son’s return from Isengard but time was of the essence and they could delay no longer despite Elrond’s concern for his child.

After Faramir had been ten days in Rivendell, Elrond had called the Council meeting and now various races were gathered, sitting in a half circle around a pedestal in an open pavilion in Elrond’s palace, bearing sober and serious expressions.

Faramir had met Elrond, Aragorn’s adopted father, but had been too much in awe of him to be able to spend much time with him. Like Aragorn when he had first arrived then Elrond’s authority reminded him too much of his father and he couldn’t handle that right now.

As the meeting was to start, Faramir seated at Aragorn’s right side, his eyes would go to Aragorn and Legolas, who sat at Aragorn’s other side, for assurance. On occasion he would also cast looks towards Gimli with interest, as he was the first Dwarf he had ever seen.

“Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-Earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate-this one doom,” Elrond began the meeting, his face serious. He gestured to the pedestal, “Bring forth the Ring, Frodo. ”

Faramir had been introduced to Frodo and had felt a sadness, a burden in the young Hobbit that had reminded him of his brother. He wondered if the two of them because of this kinship would have been connected or repealed had they met.

Frodo put the Ring on the pedestal and Faramir looked at it in wonder. It was a plain gold band; just like the ring from his visions. It seemed harmless but as he looked at it he felt darkness and dread reach out to him, whispering in his ears and making him shiver, feeling coldness freeze his heart. He shook his head as if to clear it and when next he looked at the Ring all was silent and the coldness and the shivers were gone as if they had never been. Shaken, he levelled his eyes to look above the Ring but still in its direction since everyone else was and he supposed he was expected to do likewise.

When the gathered people had gotten over the shock and surprise at seeing the fabled One Ring, talk broke out in the circle, everyone whispering or talking at once.

“It is really true.”

  
“The One Ring…”

“None of us can wield it. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master,” Aragorn said strongly, firmly, before anyone could suggest such a thing, feeling it needed to be said because of some of the humans’ look of awe and some of the Dwarfs look of greed when they saw the shiny and precious metal.

“Aragorn is right. We cannot use it,” Gandalf said.

“You have only one choice. The Ring must be destroyed,” Elrond added, nodding his agreement to both Aragorn and Gandalf.

“What are we waiting for?” Gimli said and grabbed his axe and approached the pedestal.

“No!” Gandalf warned but too late. Gimli swung the axe full force at the Ring and was bounced back, splinters of the axe lying around the intact Ring.

Frodo moaned in pain and Faramir took a hand to his head, wincing, feeling a shadow trying to dig into his soul, the pain more intense than anything he had ever felt. It was like something was trying to pull out his very being through his skull and he briefly closed his eyes against the pain.

“The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Gloin, by any craft that we here possess. The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came,” Elrond explained.

“Surely a brotherhood of the Elven race would be best suited for this purpose, my lord Elrond,” Faramir suggested respectfully, turning to look at Elrond as he spoke, one hand still on his throbbing head but the pain was fading now. However, what was troubling him was why had he felt this pain in the first place? What was the connection between the Ring and him? Just the thought that there should exist a connection beyond his visions made him frown with concern.

Elrond shook his head. “This task cannot be done by one race along. This must be a united effort. However, the burden of the Ring can lie with only one person.” He paused before he added, “One of you must bear it.”

“Impossible!” One of the men gathered at the Council shouted.

“The Ring must be destroyed!” Legolas said with certainty.

Gimli looked at him with distaste and jumped to his feet. “And I suppose you think you're the one to do it?!”

“I shall do my part,” Legolas said evenly.

“I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an Elf!” Gimli said hotly.

“Why should I trust a Dwarf when your race do nothing but hide and mine for gold?” Legolas gave back.

Suddenly arguments erupted all around and Faramir felt a weight pressing on his skull as if it was about to explode as if the pain was intensified by the violence.

“Never trust an Elf!” Gimli yelled but the rest of the debate faded into nonsense as Faramir fought not to fall from his chair from the pain in his head.

“Faramir, are you in pain?” Aragorn asked concerned and was suddenly beside him, kneeling beside his chair, looking at him with the compassionate and worried eyes of a healer, trying to see if he had any injuries.

“Do you not understand that while we bicker amongst ourselves, Sauron’s power grows?! None can escape it!” Gandalf’s voice broke through but the arguing continued.

“I don’t know why I feel this way,” Faramir admitted through clashed teeth, looking at Aragorn and attempted a reassuring smile but it turned into a grimace of pain, ruining the effect he had intended. “Yet I am sure it is somehow connected to the Ring.”

“ I will take it! I will take it!” Frodo’s voice broke through the arguments and everyone fell silent. Aragorn turned and looked at Frodo in surprise, as did everyone else. Frodo had moved from his seat in the circle and now stood close to where the Ring lay.

“I will take the Ring to Mordor. Though… I do not know the way,” Frodo went on, looking around for help, a lost but certain look in his eyes.

Gandalf rose and held a half proud and half sad look in his eyes as he laid a comforting hand on Frodo’s shoulder.

“ I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, so long as it is yours to bear.”

Aragorn gave Faramir a concerned look but he nodded, indicating he was all right. The pain was fading now, as suddenly as it had appeared.

Aragorn rose and went to Frodo. “If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will,” he said sincerely, his eyes on the Hobbit as he spoke. He knelt before the small Hobbit before he added in the same tone of voice. “You have my sword.”

Legolas walked to stand by Aragorn. He would have done this task even if not Aragorn had been here yet as it was he was not willing to let his bond brother go into danger without him. “And you have my bow. “

Gimli gave Legolas a grim look, clearly not wishing to be outdone by an Elf. “And my axe!” he said, walking to stand before Frodo as well.

Faramir fought back the pain in his mind, relieved to find it was fading fast. He walked to Frodo, carefully avoiding looking at the Ring, remembering the sharp pain that doing so had brought him earlier.

“You carry the fates of us all, little one. If this is indeed the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done,” Faramir said strongly, knowing he was now speaking on behalf of his nation and unconsciously he used his brother’s nickname for himself when addressing the brave Hobbit. He knelt before Frodo and held a hand to his sword. “My sword is yours to command.”

“Heh!” Sam suddenly said, startling everyone when he jumped forth from behind some bushes. “Mr. Frodo is not goin’ anywhere without me!”

Elrond smiled in amusement and Faramir thought it made him look a lot more approachable and less intimidating. “No indeed, it is hardly possible to separate you even when he is summoned to a secret Council and you are not.”

Pippin and Merry emerged from behind some of the pillars of the pavilion where the meeting had been held and joined them. “Wait! We are coming too!” they said in union.

“You'd have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us!” Merry said strongly and Faramir smiled fondly. What brave creatures these Hobbits were despite their childlike size. 

“Anyway, you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission, quest... thing,” Pippin insisted.

“ Well that rules you out, Pip,” Merry teased and Faramir smiled, as did the others, letting the Hobbits loving banter lift his spirits.

Elrond looked them over before he nodded with a small smile. “Nine companions... So be it! You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring!”

His words set an almost ceremonial atmosphere and everyone wore solemn expressions as they rose or otherwise withdrew from where they had been standing or kneeling before Frodo. 

“Great! Where are we going again?” Pippin asked with puzzlement, making Faramir laugh out loud, more to get the relief from the sound than because his words had been all that funny.

Slowly the council disbanded and everyone prepared to leave Rivendell the next morning. Faramir wished to remember as much of his visit to Rivendell as possible, not sure if he would ever return, so he used the time to explore the city some more, trying to burn the memory of it into his very soul. He carefully sought to avoid Frodo who now wore the Ring around his neck in a band, knowing that somehow the pain he felt was connected to it.

Suddenly he found himself in the library and moved to look at the shelves with books, eager to read every one of them. Caught up in reading the books’ titles it took him some time to notice Elrond sitting in a chair in the library but when he did he was to leave to politely grant him privacy but then he hesitated. The Elven lord of Rivendell looked lost and sad as he sat here alone, his eyes staring unseeing straight ahead instead of on the map in his lap. In the midst of beauty he looked deeply troubled and Faramir felt a wave of sympathy hit him, thinking he knew what the Elf was thinking about.

  
“Your son will return to you,” Faramir spoke softly, horrified to find his soft words echoing in the high ceiling room. He was to turn and leave when Elrond’s voice stopped him.

“Thank you,” he said softly, warmly and Faramir turned back to look at him, seeing the hope, the love in his eyes. It was clear the Elf loved his children deeply and Faramir’s fear of the man faded somewhat in the light of this fact.

“Lord Elrond, may I speak with you?” he asked politely and Elrond nodded and waved at him to indicate he should sit opposite him on the diva that was next to the chair Elrond was occupying. He had been studying a map, trying to find the safest and fastest route for the Fellowship to walk so he could propose this to Gandalf when his concern for his son had distracted him. Though his son was no child then having had him near for thousands of years did not ease the thought of loss; it increased the agony, especially when as Elves they were never ready to accept death, used to being able to cheat it.

“Speak, Faramir of Gondor,” Elrond invited, lying the map down on the floor beside his chair.

Faramir fiddled nervously for a second or two under Elrond’s stoic gaze before he asked, “I was wondering why you do not send more warriors to destroy the Ring,” he began.

“Sauron would detect it if I send more,” Elrond said calmly but then gave Faramir a piercing look. “Yet this is not why you are here.”

  
“No,” Faramir admitted softly. Though he had wondered about this he had ever faith in the wisdom of the Elves and besides…Aragorn trusted them and that would have been good enough for Faramir under any circumstances.

“Aragorn told me about your pain at the Council and how you thought it connected to the Ring. He sought my advise on how to best aid you,” Elrond explained and Faramir looked expectantly and hopeful at him.

“Do you know what is wrong with me, my lord?” He asked, his voice between curiosity, hope at finally finding out and worry over what reply he might get.

“I saw a future where your brother came here instead of you and he would have acted very differently,” Elrond said thoughtfully, almost speaking to himself.

“I know I cannot live up to his standards but I swear I shall do my best not to fail you or this quest,” Faramir vowed, his voice humbled yet strong.

“No, young one, I meant that you being here brings more balance to the Fellowship yet you have to pay the price for this…for changing that which had been laid out,” Elrond said kindly, taking a liking to the young mortal for his kind and emotional ways.

“Gandalf told me the future is never set in stone,” Faramir said with a concerned frown, afraid he might have done something that would harm Gondor or his brother.

“It is not,” Elrond agreed. “However, unlike your brother, you soul and heart is pure and open. You came here like a child.”

“I do not understand,” Faramir admitted.

“Despite all you have been through your soul is still new, pure…open. Sauron senses that. The Ring senses that. Such a soul is not easily tempted but it **is** easily pained,” Elrond explained.

“Pained? How?” Faramir asked with worry, praying this would not make him a liability to the Fellowship.  
  


“By the pain of others. What you felt was the backlash of your compassion and sympathy for the lives the Ring, Sauron, showed you in your soul he would destroy. I know this because the Ring has the same pained effect on some Elves, among others my daughter which is why she was not at the Council meeting,” Elrond explained, his care and love for his children, and in particular his youngest and most beloved daughter, clear in his voice.

“How can I stop it? The pain grew so strong that at one point I feared I would pass out. If that happens during battle….” Faramir voiced his concern.

“You could get killed,” Elrond supplied for him, his voice holding a note of sympathy.

Faramir looked surprised at him, having never considered that. “No, I meant I could let the others down…mayhap even get them killed.”

Silence settled over them until Elrond said, impressed by Faramir’s reply, “Your soul is what protects you from the temptation of the Ring. Your pain is what protects you. You cannot and should not outrun it. However, if you try not to look at the Ring or be too near it…the pain should be less frequent and less strong,” Elrond advised.

Faramir nodded and smiled relieved. “I shall endeavour to put as much distance between the Ring and myself as possible then. Thank you.”

  
Elrond nodded and a calm yet somewhat sad silence settled between them, making Elrond feel like he was standing on a battlefield with many friends shattered around him like he had so many years ago. To shake the grim image he said, “You have a long way to travel…pick a book from my library to keep your spirits up on your travel. You will not be required to stand watch **every** night and I saw you eye them all longingly.”

  
Faramir looked at him in shock and joy, letting the prospect of owning a real Elven book distract him from a journey that could very likely claim his life. “You are certain, my lord?”  
  


Elrond smiled kindly, relieved to see some of the strain had left the young mortal’s face. ”Your fascination is flattering. Yes, I am certain.”

Before his eyes the grave young man became the enthusiastic child once more and unable to contain his joy Faramir embraced Elrond. “Thank you!” 

Remembering that Elves rarely touched Faramir blushed and drew back at once, the action so quick Elrond had had no time to move his arms even if he had wanted to return to embrace. “My apologies,” he mumbled embarrassed.

“Don’t be. I enjoyed to once again feel the pure love normally only found in a child,” Elrond said warmly and with one last smile he took the map and left the room.

Faramir looked after him with a smile and now knew how Aragorn had grown into such a natural leader…Elrond had been a great teacher.

When the Fellowship left the city of Rivendell they did so with a sense of hope despite Aragorn’s sorrow at leaving his beloved again so soon.

Until they were out of Rivendell’s forests and grounds some Elven scouts and hunters would cover their tracks for them, granting them a feeling of safety they would not have later on.

Faramir used the safe journey at the beginning of their travel to catch up on his friendship with Gandalf, speak with Aragorn or Legolas, and enjoy life’s simpler pleasures with Merry and Pippin and if time permitted to read his book. Everyone knew the seriousness of their mission but for now there was still time for play and laughs, mostly supplied by Merry and Pippin to Faramir’s open amusement, the grumpy amusement of Gandalf and Aragorn and subdued amusement from their elegant Elf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter for this week's large update. Hope you are enjoying it and it is helping during these hard times.   
> If you liked it please leave kudos and a comment. It would mean so much to me. So please consider doing it. Thank you :)


	21. Approaching Amon Hen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The followship break up - and is attacked

## Approaching Amon Hen

The journey had proved more dangerous and difficult than they had first hoped as they had proceeded past Rivendell’s protection.

At first there had been ample time for talk and getting to know each other. Faramir had enjoyed catching up with Aragorn and Gandalf and learning more about the ways of Elves, Hobbits and Dwarfs, staying clear of Frodo and Sam though. He had noticed Frodo’s sad look at this and had explained to him why he kept his distance and Frodo had understood. Despite his precaution then he had suffered several painful attacks and as the journey stretched on they became longer and more painful, a fact he fought to hide from the others, feverishly praying he would not put the others in danger because of this, what he considered a weakness.

Aragorn had with herbs tried to help him ease the pain but it came to the point that when an attack hit him his head felt as if it should explode and he would lose his grip on his sword and drop to his knees in agony. Luckily so far none of the attacks had happened while they were combating the smaller Orc parties they had run into.

Faramir had sought Gandalf’s advise on how to stop the painful attacks which of all the Fellowship members seemed to be targeted only on him. However, all the wizard could tell him was that Sauron sought his destruction but the wizard did not know why, despite the obvious reasons of course. Was it because of what he could do or because Sauron too had seen a future in which Boromir had joined the Fellowship instead of Faramir and he had felt he had had a better chance of stealing the heart of the oldest Gondor brother and was angered to have been denied this chance?

Those questions remained unanswered as the death of Gandalf in Moria put everything on hold, freezing them all in their grief and despair. His death crippled them all. Faramir never took out his Elven book again after this, Aragorn looked like he carried the weight of the world alone, Legolas became more silent and all in all a feeling of dread and uncertainty settled over the group.

Bringing the discouraged group to Lothlorien and been a stroke of brilliance on Aragorn’s part. Burnt out and ready to give up hope, the meeting with the beautiful Kingdom and the magical Elves living there had brought back hope and peace to them all. Faramir in particular had been overjoyed to find that Queen Galadriel was the lady from Aragorn’s childhood tales.

Faramir had been greatly fascinated by the Queen and he had equally fascinated her. She had told him that never before had she seen such a pure soul in a grown mortal being. While pure of heart Aragorn knew the trials of defeat and carried with him the guilt of a failure committed by his forefather thousands of years ago. Faramir’s soul was as if newborn; pure and thus his pain and love was also equally pure and raw.

Everyone had been sad to leave the peaceful country behind. Safe within Lothlorien it was as if the War was not happening and they could pretend for a moment or two that their very lives were not about to be torn apart. Even Frodo seemed less troubled here and Faramir suffered no attacks from the Ring while under the Queen’s magical protection.

Yet leave they had to and armed with various gifts from Galadriel, among others capes and boats, they had left by sea. Faramir had been surprised by her gift to him, a golden pin formed as the Elfish letter for nine. She had asked he fastened it on his inner shirt, hidden under his clothes, on the place of his heart. Puzzled, but not one to ask questions of this powerful and magical being, Faramir had thanked her and went with the others.

When they reached Amon Hen Faramir begun to get a strange sensation in his chest. He ignored it and helped Aragorn and Legolas set up camp while Gimli tended to the boats and then went in search of firework for their newly founded camp.

As the minutes ticked by the sensation of danger began to grow to become a cold shiver down Faramir’s back and a fist of ice closed around his heart. There was something evil about this hill; Faramir was sure of it.

“What troubles you?” Legolas asked concerned, sitting down next to Faramir. The young mortal was sitting on a fallen tree, a frown on his face and a far away look in his eyes.

Legolas’ words brought Faramir out of his musings and he turned and smiled at the Elf.

“My thoughts were elsewhere,” he apologized.

“You are not at ease here.”

It was not a question. Faramir nodded and frowned, losing his smile. “Something is not right.”

“I sense it too. A darkness lies over these hills,” Legolas nodded towards their surroundings.

  
Faramir looked relieved at him. “Thank Eru it is not just me. I feared I had lost my mind…jumping at ghosts.”

“It is not just you,” Legolas assured him warmly. “I sense a…” he paused and his face became serious and concerned, “No, more than darkness. I sense death.”

“Orcs?” Aragorn suddenly asked, making Faramir jump in surprise while Legolas turned to see Aragorn standing beside them, having heard his approach despite the Elfish stealth Aragorn’s years in Rivendell had taught him.

“Possibly.”

Faramir scanned the small campsite. “Where are the Hobbits?” he asked concerned. If Orcs were near they would need to assure their safety.

Legolas and Aragorn turned to scan the camp as well.

“They are not here,” Aragorn said unnecessarily, concern and shock in his voice as if he could not understand that they weren’t. “I told them to stay,” he added with annoyance and concern.

“We must search for them,” Legolas declared and jumped to his feet, picking up his bow and arrows from where he had laid them near a tree at the camp.

“Faramir, search west. Legolas, go east. I shall go north,” Aragorn ordered, one hand on his sword handle as he met two pair of concerned eyes.

“If we find a Hobbit shall we return to the campsite with him or go in search of more or you?” Faramir asked.

“Return here.”

“Eye,” Faramir nodded for both Legolas and himself.

“Move out,” Aragorn said and they scattered.

As Faramir searched for the Hobbits, his worry rose and his feeling of uneasiness did not lessen.

“Merry? Pippin? Can anyone hear me?” Faramir called when he could see no signs of Orcs or anyone else in the forest for that matter. His hand rested on his sword handle, ready to draw it and sweat appeared on his brow. He had not even been this nervous the first time he had gone into battle. _Relax_ , he sternly told himself but it didn’t help.

The silence of the forest seemed deafening. The Hobbits couldn’t have moved so far away. His whole body was now on alert and as taut as a bow’s string.

“One should think I was attending my own funeral pyre,” Faramir mumbled softly, wiping his brow with a hand. Why had he made that comparison, knowing what he had seen in his vision; himself burning? What was wrong with him? He fought to get his expiration and heartbeat under control but had little success.

“Faramir!” Sam’s voice caught him and Faramir was relieved to focus on something else besides his strange sensations.

The Hobbit ran to him, looking very worried, running faster through the forest than Faramir had imagined the Hobbit would be able to move.

“There you are,” Faramir said relieved when he saw him. “Come, we must return to camp.”

He put a hand behind the Hobbit’s back or rather his neck to steer him in the right direction but Sam pulled away from him.

“Master Frodo says he is leaving. You must stop him,” Sam insisted panicked, his eyes large and pleading and Faramir inwardly groaned. Being near Frodo meant being near the Ring. Just what he did not need in his present condition.

“Lead me to him,” Faramir ordered, fighting to ignore the voice in his mind screaming this was a mistake. Frodo was in danger; he had to do something. Still, the feeling that he was playing right into the hands of danger, of destiny, did not leave him.

Sam led him to the water and he saw Frodo had taken one of the boats and must have walked with it on the shore, dragging it further up the riverbank. Far enough away from the camp so he would not be easily spotted from there. He was now ready to sail away and was preparing the boat to do just that.

“Frodo. What are you doing?” Faramir asked carefully, stopped some ten paces from him, hoping it was distance enough from the Ring. Frodo turned to look at him and Sam who stood beside him, pain in his large blue eyes.

“I have to leave. Galadriel told me this.”  
  


As he had turned to face them Faramir had caught a glimpse of the Ring around the Hobbit’s neck and at once his head began to pound. He bit his lower lip and winced. For now the pain was bearable and he levelled his eyes with Frodo’s, carefully avoiding looking at the Ring.

“Why do you leave those sent to protect you?”

Frodo took a step closer to him and Faramir forced himself to stay put though the pain in his head grew worse and he had to fight the instinct to move as well as the instinct to make the useless gesture of stroking his forehead with his hand.

“Can you protect me from yourself?” Frodo asked softly and there was a plea in his eyes that said he wished for a yes. He looked tired and worn, wishing someone, anyone, to ease the heavy burden he was carrying.

Faramir hesitated. The pain in his mind grew larger and made concentrating hard. “I do not desire the Ring. My only desire is to be far away from it,” he admitted with a painful grimace.

“As your pain grows could you vow you would never be tempted to take the Ring for your own to get rid of it faster? Mayhap simply out of desperation? Or…the pain growing so great it would end up destroying you or forcing you to end your own existence to escape it?” Frodo asked, compassion and fear in his voice, for the first time saying out loud the fears Faramir himself had also had.

“I know not the strength of my will or soul. I have long doubted both but if the Lady of the Golden Wood think it best we part…” he took a deep breath, knowing Aragorn was not going to be happy with this but trusting he would understand, “then we part.”

Frodo looked relieved yet scared, caught between being happy and sad that he was being allowed to part without a fight. “Thank you.”

Faramir nodded before he knelt before Frodo so they could be eye to eye. “You are now our only hope yet I have faith in you, little one,” Faramir said softly, seriously, and Frodo nodded, accepting his faith and the burden they brought with them.

As Faramir rose once more Frodo went back to the boat after giving Sam one last agonized look that Sam was too stunned to return, shell-shocked into silence.

“You should stop him! You have to!” Sam protested, tugging on Faramir’s sleeve, desperation, fear, and need in his voice. Frodo would be all alone, he might be hurt and would have no one to carry him if he fell…No, he could not go alone out there…he could not! Surely Faramir, seemly reasonable, for a human being, could see this as well?

“It is not my place to do so,” Faramir said softly, knowing deep inside that this was true.

Sam saw the boat pull out and tears began to stream down his cheeks as he looked out towards Frodo. “Do not go where I cannot follow,” he mumbled heartbroken and the pain in Faramir’s mind intensified as his compassion and sympathy rose for Sam’s agony at being left behind by the man he clearly loved deeper and higher than anything else.

“I would not stop him…nor would I you,” he said softly, putting a comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder, trying to offer what little solace he could. Sometimes the only kindness available to give was the knowledge that you would not to be alone should the world end…that you would face the end with a loved one by your side.

Sam looked surprised and shocked at him but then he smiled and briefly laid his own hand over Faramir’s on his shoulder before Faramir withdrew his hand.

“Thank you. You are a good man,” he said warmly and Faramir nodded his thanks.

“Mister Frodo. Wait for me!” Sam called out and without further thought he jumped into the water and began to half swim and half walk through the water in his eagerness to reach the boat.

Faramir watched anxiously on the shore and had just decided to jump in the water when it seemed like Sam would not make it all the way out to the boat when an arrow suddenly whished through the air and caught him in his right leg.

He gave a yell of surprise and pain. As he turned around he saw several Orcs advancing on him and his heart began to beat faster.

  
”Faramir!” Frodo called from the lake, his voice frightened but Faramir had turned his back on him and had drawn his sword. He could not let the Orcs reach the Hobbits; the fate of Middle Earth now rested in their hands.

“Frodo, do not linger! Bring Sam with you and be on your way,” Faramir yelled over his shoulder, his eyes on the Orcs, praying Frodo would do what he asked and leave.

His leg was thumping painfully and he reached down and tore the arrow out, giving a yell of agony as he did so. He moved away from the shore to get a better terrain for fighting and then, just as he had reached the onset of the forest, the first Orc was upon him without warning. His injured leg was dragging him down but it wasn’t as distracting as the pain in his skull. While still bearable, the pain was growing, making him wince in agony. He silently prayed that as Frodo moved further away from him the pain would lessen because it was becoming steadily worse and thus more distracting.

The fight seemed to last a lifetime. One blow, then the next. He fought to recall every move taught to him by his teachers, his brother and Aragorn. The pain in his head was growing instead of dimming, blood was running down his leg and the pain and blood loss was making his defence less than perfect. He knew it was only a question of time before the Orcs would have him pinned down and he briefly wondered if Aragorn and Legolas were safe, hoping they were. His thoughts then went to his brother. He was safe. He had to be. He needed to believe he was.

A sudden sound, an Orc battle command, made Faramir break through the cloud of increasing pain and exhaustion his head had been caught in. Most of the Orcs took off and Faramir felt dread take him. Had they captured Frodo and Sam?

Before he could do anything else the pain in his skull intensified as if on command and with a yell of pure agony he fell to his knees, fighting to still hold onto his sword.

“Ahhh!”

His yell echoed through the forest, seeming to mock his pain by being bounced back to him. He fought to get to his feet but blood loss, the pain from his wound in his leg, exhaustion and the blinding pain in his skull made him only able to stay on his knees.

“Saruman said the child of Gondor shall not return…now he never will,” an Uruk-Hai said with glee in his voice and Faramir gasped in shock. Saruman was working for Sauron! He feared for the fate of Elrond’s son and as this thought filled his heart with sympathy and fear he felt the pain in his mind intensifying even more though he hadn’t thought it possible.

Faramir lifted his head to look his would be killer in the eye, seeing the arrow aimed straight at his heart. Suddenly he realized why he was here, what was happening. This was his dream. This was…this should have been Boromir’s death. Yet Boromir was now safe…he was safe!

Faramir smiled through the pain and the agony in his skull lessened as a feeling of serenity fell over him. “I die for my brother gladly,” he said softly, looking the Uruk-Hai straight in the eyes as he spoke, his gaze never lingering, his face held proud and certain, unafraid now of what was to come, accepting it gladly.

“Foolish human!” The Uruk-Hai sneered and fired his arrow. Time seemed to slow down and Faramir closed his eyes, smiling as images came to him. Boromir playing with him, Aragorn reading an Elven poem to him under a tree, playing with Kanó in the garden….

A sharp pain hit his heart and he thought, _this is it, I am dying,_ yet he felt no regret only a sense of peace; the pain and the loneliness was ending. His death had a purpose, Gondor had Her champion safe and with Her. He smiled inwardly as he thought, _this is a good death. I got this part right if nothing else._

Suddenly a bright light exploded and when Faramir opened his eyes again he saw the arrow lying at his knees, broken in half and the Uruk-Hai looking surprising at him.

“What magic is this?” he asked shocked but Faramir just shook his head, not knowing what had happened either. Then it came to him… Galadriel’s gift! Could it have done this?

“Your head should not be as well protected,” the Uruk-Hai said with a dark smile and aimed at his head and once more Faramir met his gaze evenly, once more finding peace in what was to come.

The arrow never fell. Aragorn jumped into view from the forest and tackled the Uruk-Hai. Faramir drew a deep and relieved breath, not wishing to die needlessly, and tried to stand but found his legs too weak to move. He was light-headed and had to fight to just stay conscious on his knees. He registered that Gimli, Legolas and Aragorn fought the remaining Orcs around him, making them join the dead bodies on the ground that Faramir had left but his vision and concentration was fading.

“Faramir?” Aragorn’s concerned voice and his warm hand on his shoulder brought his focus back to the present and Faramir saw that Aragorn was kneeing in front of him, looking at him with worry heavy in his eyes.

“You saved my life,” Faramir said softly, drifting into a delirious haze from the pain though he registered with relief that the pain in his skull had faded away now.

“I promised Boromir I would bring his brother… **our** brother back safely,” Aragorn said warmly though worry was heavy in his voice and Faramir smiled faintly.

“I knew he would ask this of you…you do it so well,” he mumbled, his eyes closing, his mind losing its hold on consciousness.

“Faramir, can you stand? I must move you and tend to your wounds,” Aragorn was saying, now sounding really worried, almost panicked.

_I must be worse off than I first thought to worry him so_ , Faramir thought weakly and wished to assure Aragorn he was alright but as he tried to lift his arm to put it over Aragorn’s in a reassuring squeeze he found it felt heavy as lead and he could not move it.

“I can stand,” he insisted groggily and leaning heavily on Aragorn by putting an arm around his shoulder, he rose with him. Aragorn had both arms around his waist, having thrown his sword on the ground in front of Faramir. With his help Faramir managed to rise, gasping from the pain and the strain of the achievement. However, as soon as he was on his feet he felt the world swing out of focus, darkness appeared at the edge of his vision and his grip around Aragorn’s shoulders loosened.

“Legolas!” Aragorn yelled worried over his shoulder towards where Legolas and Gimli were finishing off the last few Orcs as Faramir passed out in his embrace.


	22. Meeting Eomer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The followship meet Eomer and Faramir travel to Edoras

## Meeting Eomer

The situation was looking grim for the remaining members of the Fellowship.

Aragorn had with Legolas’ help got an unconscious Faramir back to their camp while Gimli kept them covered, keeping watch for any approaching Orcs. Back at their campsite Aragorn had begun to tend to Faramir’s wounds while Legolas had kept watch and Gimli had gone searching for the Hobbits.

When Faramir awoke some time later, his mind in a drugged but fairly pain free stage thanks to Aragorn’s herbs, he had told them about Frodo and Sam but that still left Merry and Pippin unaccounted for. Aragorn had found some tracks on the forest bed and from these had deduced Uruk-Hai had taken them. Faramir knew he would be slowing the Fellowship down considerably but none of the three warriors would listen to him when he claimed he could stay behind and find a way back to Rivendell on his own. Most likely it had something to do with his statement being followed by him passing out again.

So the four of them had moved out, hunting the band of Uruk-Hai who had taken Merry and Pippin. The progress was slow but luckily they did not run into any Orcs. On the other hand they did not run into anyone that might be able to help them either.

They were now crossing the Riddermark. Legolas was scouting ahead in the hope of being able to give them enough warning should an enemy approach. Aragorn was supporting Faramir with an arm around his waist, while Gimli was looking around, searching for any clues to the whereabouts of their small friends.

“You look very pale. Mayhap we should stop for awhile,” Aragorn said worried, noticing Faramir’s fatigued state, the sweat on his brow and how he fought to take as much of his own weight as he could but was too pained and too exhausted to do so. As a result he was forced to lean heavily on Aragorn, his arm over the older man’s shoulder.

“I…can continue,” Faramir insisted, biting his lower lip to prevent himself from voicing the pain walking with his injured leg brought him.

Aragorn had not told Faramir how deeply worried he was over the young man’s leg injury. The arrow had been dripped in poison and the wound was becoming infected, angry and red. His second worry was what Faramir had told him his would have been murderer had said. That Saruman had joined with Sauron had shocked them all and the safety of Elrond’s son was now a great concern. However, that he had a specific interest in seeing Faramir dead was definitely worrisome news. Aragorn knew well that Sauron had a particular interest in seeing him dead since he was the King of Men but why would Saruman seek Faramir’s destruction? He had voiced both concerns he had about Faramir to Legolas who had agreed that unless they could allow Faramir rest and proper care in a House of Healing, he would not survive long.

“You are a poor liar,” Aragorn scolded as he searched for a spot to let Faramir take rest. He found a place nearby where the earth had formed a small hill about the height of two full-grown men. He helped Faramir sit down next to it, leading his back against the small rise. Faramir tried to contain the moan of pain as he was helped down but couldn’t quite help but to let it escape.

“Legolas, we need to take rest,” Aragorn called to his far off friend, knowing his superior hearing would pick it up. Legolas turned towards him and when he begun to run back to him Aragorn’s heart began to beat faster and he got a very bad feeling from watching his Elven friend’s haste.

“What do you see, Elf?” Gimli asked grumpily. He would never admit it but everyone had seen how the Elf and the Dwarf had drifted closer together through the ordeal the quest had turned out to be.

Legolas reached Aragorn, Gimli at his side. “Riders are approaching,” he warned and looked concerned down at Faramir.

“Help me to my feet,” Faramir asked and reached out a hand towards Aragorn.

“You should not be on your feet,” Aragorn denied, remaining standing at his side, looking down at him but not making a move to help him rise.

“If I die I die standing. Now help me up,” Faramir insisted and with a concerned frown Aragorn took his hand around the wrist and helped him to his feet by putting his other hand around his waist. First when Faramir was standing securely on his feet did Aragorn release his hold on him, though reluctantly. However, if enemies were approaching it was best not to let them know how weakened Faramir really was.

“Be ready but no one draws weapons yet,” Aragorn said as the small band stood close together, awaiting the riders approach. The earth began to shake in warning and then several riders came into view.

“The flag of Rohan,” Faramir whispered relieved as he saw it though all remained standing close and on alert. The riders stopped before them, circling them. The leader moved his horse a bit closer to them than the others. All wore helmets that concealed their faces and completed the impressive image they made as warrior horsemen.

“Riders of the Riddermark. We mean you no harm,” Aragorn greeted them.

“What business does an Elf, a Dwarf, a man and a sick child have in the Riddermark?” the leader asked coldly, looking at Gimli, Legolas, Aragorn and Faramir in turn.

“I am no child but Faramir, brother of Boromir, son of Denethor, steward of Gondor,” Faramir said as strongly as his weakened and ill body allowed him to.

“Faramir?” the leader asked surprised as he jumped from his horse.

“Yes,” Faramir said, his expression guarded.

As the leader took a step towards Faramir Aragorn had drawn his sword and moved his body to half shield the younger man who was fighting fever, pain and illness to just stay on his feet.

“Harm him and I shall have your head,” Aragorn said darkly. After the revelation that Saruman wanted Faramir dead Aragorn took no chances.

At once the leader’s men drew their lances, pointing them straight at them, which made Gimli raise his axe and Legolas put an arrow on his bow.

“I mean the youth no harm,” the leader said calmly and added over his shoulder, “Lower your weapons.”

  
His men obeyed at once and Gimli and Legolas lowered theirs a bit but not all the way, determined to stay alert until Aragorn told them to do otherwise or they saw proof the riders meant none of them any harm.

“Who are you?” Faramir asked curiously as he was feeling safer now that the leader had had his men lower their weapons, his heartbeat slowing down again.

The leader removed his helmet to reveal the face of a strong warrior, a man with dark eyes and long light hair. His grim face fitted his extremely fit body and ‘rock’ was the best comparison Faramir could think of.

“I am Eomer, son of…” he began.

“I remember you!” Faramir interrupted happily and laid a hand on Aragorn’s arm. “He is a friend. Boromir and I played with him and his sister a few times as children.”

Aragorn recalled the episodes Faramir spoke of but still gave Eomer one last warning look before he put his sword back in its scabbard and Gimli and Legolas lowered their weapons all the way.

“What business brings Gondor’s son so far from home?” Eomer asked curiously.

“The growing threat from Mordor,” Faramir told him and then frowned in concern. “We are looking for two of our friends, Hobbits. They would have been like children to your eyes. Have you seen them?”

“They were taken by a band of Uruk-Hai. We tracked them here,” Aragorn explained, accepting Faramir’s judgement of this man as he would his own.

“My riders and I conquered a band east of here. Yet I fear if they were among them they will be dead now,” Eomer admitted regretfully.

“Oh, no,” Faramir mumbled sadly. They had become good friends, so kind hearted…they should not have died here…they should not even have been here.

“We have recently discovered Saruman has joined forces with Sauron. Be aware of this when hunting,” Legolas warned and Eomer nodded.

“We discovered this when Orcs wearing the White Hand of Saruman were found.”

Faramir fought to stay conscious through this debate but swayed on his feet, making Aragorn move to support him.

“Deep breaths,” Aragorn instructed as he took Faramir’s arm and let it rest around his neck to get a better grip on him, his other arm going around his waist.

“How badly is he wounded?” Eomer asked worried.

“It was but an arrow wound but the arrow was poisoned,” Aragorn explained and pointed towards the bandage around Faramir’s leg.

“He needs a healer,” Eomer said with certainty, having seen enough battles to know that if untreated the young man would not survive.

“Can you take him back to Edoras?” Aragorn requested, his voice hopeful. “Let your healers tend to him?”

A flash of pain ran over Eomer’s face. “I was thrown from Edoras on the pain of death. The King is not himself. He listens to the foul whispers of his advisor whom I am certain is a spy for Saruman,” he concluded darkly, rage in his eyes as well as a burning desire for vengeance.

“Can one of your men take him close to the city?” Legolas asked, concern over Eomer’s news as well as hope that Faramir could still be helped clear in his voice.

“Yes, but he will have to travel the rest of the way into the city on his own,” Eomer replied and looked worried at Faramir’s sweaty and pained form, not sure if the younger man would be able to do so.

At these words Faramir stood up straight and looked Eomer right in the eyes. “Get me there and I swear on my brother’s life I can make it to the palace,” he said strongly

Eomer looked uncertain but then nodded. “I recall the love between the brothers of Gondor and know the worth of your vow. Theiul, one of my best riders, shall take you as close to the city as he can,” Eomer waved towards one of the riders who came forth, the reins to a second horse, riderless, in his hand. “The horse used to belong to one of my riders who fell in battle. May he serve you well,” Eomer explained when he saw Faramir’s questioning look.

Faramir nodded his thanks and reached out his hand. Eomer shook it warrior style, hand around his wrist. “I am in your debt.”

  
“My sister remains in Edoras. She walks in shadow now, I fear, and my heart is heavy with worry. Thank me by protecting her for she is the light that guides me,” Eomer replied honestly and Faramir nodded as he drew his hand back.

“I shall protect her with my life if needs be,” Faramir vowed, recalling the protectiveness Eomer had always shown his sister when he had met them as children as well as the love between the siblings, something he could understand well.

Eomer nodded satisfaction to his words and Faramir walked to the horse with Aragorn’s help and Legolas and Gimli moved with him.

“It was an honour to meet you, Master Dwarf. I hope to see you again,” Faramir said with a smile to the Dwarf as he stood beside the horse.

“I would fight beside you, human, any day,” the Dwarf replied, his voice rough with unspoken emotions.

Faramir then turned to Legolas and his smile softened. “Thank you for showing me that my childhood tales of Elven strength, beauty and valour were true.”

The Elf smiled as they shook hands. “Travel well, son of Gondor.”

Faramir finally turned to Aragorn, knowing, as they all did, that there was a very real possibility that he would never see any of them again. “My brother, my captain…my King,” Faramir said softly, warmly. “I would have followed you to Mordor and back.”

Aragorn nodded and felt the younger man give him a half hug, one arm already around his neck for support.

“I know, brother,” Aragorn simply said and without any more words he helped Faramir into the saddle while Legolas put Faramir’s belongings in the saddlebags.

“Safe journey,” Eomer wished and Faramir nodded, looking one last time at his three friends and Eomer.

“Thank you. Safe journey to you and yours,” he wished back before his guide began to ride off and he rode after him, forcing himself not to look back.

The ride towards Edoras was long and pained. Faramir was in a way relieved to find his pain and illness rising because this prevented him from mourning his Hobbit friends, from worrying about Frodo and Sam, worrying about Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, Eomer and his riders and most of all…for worrying about his brother who despite the distance was always close in his heart.

He did not wish to consider he could have seen all his friends for the last time. Thankfully he was saved this agonizing worry at least. By the time Edoras came into view he was so ill no other thought than getting through this moment and then the next registered with him. His world was reduced to nothing but this; to reach Edoras’ palace. He had forgotten why it was important but he knew he had given a vow and he **had** to reach it.

He had to. Somehow…he had to get there, even if he had forgotten why, his mind clouded by pain, he just knew…. He had to reach it.


	23. A Vision In Edoras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir meet Eowyn and have a vision

## A Vision In Edoras

The ride from the Riddermark to Edoras worsened Faramir’s condition and the relatively short ride from where Eomer’s rider had left him outside the city to the palace had proved more exhausting than he had hoped. He had had to take off his horse’s battle gear, reins and saddle as these wore Rohan’s mark but had kept the saddlebags with his belongings in them since they wore no mark. Though he had often ridden without saddle and reins it always demanded more strength to do so, strength he did not have. Stubbornness more than anything else carried him to the palace but by then he was so exhausted and weak he had to clash his teeth firmly together, his brow and hands sweaty, to remain upright on the horse.

He had caught quite a few looks from people when they noticed his ill appearance as he had rode through the city but had barely registered it; the palace was his goal and only thought. The pain made it hard just to focus on this one thing, the wound now hurting so bad he had an insane desire to cut off his lower leg to make it stop.

On the stairs to the palace stood a beautiful young woman in a long white dress with long wide sleeves, her long blond hair flying to the wind as she looked out over the city and towards where he was coming from. The banners of Rohan were playing in the wind beside her, giving the impression she was a personification of Rohan itself; beautiful but untamed. She caught his eyes at once and just looking at her made Faramir forget his pain. She was breathtaking yet looked so sad…so searching, a longing look in her eyes.

He caught her eyes as well and when he reached the foot of the stairs two guards reached him at the same time she did as she had hurried down the many stairs from her viewpoint overlooking the city to the street.

“You are a vision of beauty,” he mumbled when she stood beside him, a worried look in her eyes as she looked up at the flushed, fevered and delirious rider. Before she was able to reply he passed out, luckily to be caught by the two guards who gently eased him to the ground.

For the next many days he was drifting in and out of consciousness. He remembered little from those days except a woman’s soft voice, a cooling cloth to his fever hot brow and the face of the lady he had seen earlier kept dancing before his eyes. 

Finally, this time when Faramir opened his eyes the world was no longer fuzzy around the edges, his fever had broken and the pain from his wound was minimum. He had not felt the pain from the Ring since he had been wounded and gathered he would be far enough away now to avoid being forced to relive that ordeal.

He turned around as he became more awake and looked at the room he was in. It was clearly a part of the palace, the room finely kept and contained the nice bed he was kept in as well as a nightstand, a desk, a chair, and a wardrobe. There were candleholders on the walls and on the desk and he could see from the sunlight shining in from the window that it was around noon.

“You have awoken,” a female voice said with relief and he turned to see the beautiful woman he had seen at the stairs walk through the door to his room, bearing a basin with water and fresh bandages. She was dressed finely but more practically for playing the job of nursemaid. The dress she wore now was finely made, soft green and brown with decoration around the edges of it as well as in the seams. The dress had tight sleeves, perfect for working with her hands and it gave her beauty a stronger look, taking some of the fragility and helplessness the other dress had laid upon her beauty and replacing it with a sense of purpose and strength.

“You have tended to me?” Faramir asked quietly, his eyes softening as he looked at her.

He had laid with a few tavern maids his brother had introduced him to when his older brother two years ago had decided he should know what being a man meant. However, never had he looked at a woman and felt what he did now. He was infatuated, held captive by her fragile looking strength. She was different than any other woman he had ever known; he knew this just by looking at her. There was worry in her face, she had a grace and beauty that was breathtaking but it was the strength in her eyes, the pride with which she held her head that made him wish to smile warmly at her and do nothing else but admire her all day.

“Yes. I am Eowyn, lady of Rohan. Daughter of Éomund, sister of Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, sister-daughter of Théoden, King of Rohan,” she introduced herself as she seated herself at his bedside. He was surprised by the hint of defiance as she mentioned her brother as if she expected him to speak ill of the warrior and even more taken back by the knowledge that she was royalty and the young girl he had played with a few times in childhood.

“My lady,” Faramir said formally, respectfully, moulding his behaviour into something more formal befitting her newly revealed status as royalty, “surely you need not tend to the wounds of strangers.”

“A son of the steward of Gondor is no stranger to me and I would trust none else to care for this man’s injuries,” Eowyn said as she rolled up Faramir’s blanket from the feet’s end, up to his knee, leaving his bandage visible. She began to change it with a nurse’s gentle but professional care, washing his wound.

“You know who I am?” he asked surprised, forgetting the momentary embarrassment at having his vision of beauty tend to his injury had arisen in him.

She nodded while washing his wound, having put the dirty bandages on the nightstand. “You wore the mark of the White Tree on your uniform. Your clothes are from fine material and you wear the uniform of the captain of the Gondorian rangers. Only a son of the steward would earn this title,” she explained her reasoning as she bandaged his wound in a fresh bandage.

“You recall we met as children?” he asked curiously, hopefully, impressed by her show of intelligence. Sadly many men neglected the education of their daughters and he was happy to see this was not so with her. He had never wished for a woman who could only satisfy a political alliance and fill his bed while being pleasing to the eyes; he wished more than that. Looking at her now he recalled that she had always been more daring and outspoken than any other girl he had ever met. He wondered if she recalled their earlier meetings. He sure remembered her. Not in the sense of love or anything as predestined as that but with a feeling of…of being happy with her.

She nodded and smiled at him as she sat up straight, covering his legs once more now that his wound was tended to. “I do.”

“I met your brother,” Faramir told her, thinking if she cared for her brother as much as he cared for his, which he recalled from childhood she did, she would wish to know this right away.

“Does he fare well? Last I saw him…” she began worried, eagerness to hear news of him in her voice but then anger sat in. “Last I saw him was after Wormtongue had had the guards beat him.”

“Why would the guards of Rohan treat your honourable brother so disgracefully?” Faramir asked shocked, sitting up in bed sharply, wincing as a wave of pain and nausea hit him. Obviously he was not as healed as he felt when lying down.

She put a gentle hand on his shoulder and he let himself fall back to the pillows.

“He showed my uncle evidence that Saruman sent Orcs into our lands but I fear my uncle is under Wormtongue’s spell. He called my brother a liar and a traitor and banned him from these lands…lands he has bleed for to keep safe,” she admitted sadly, her eyes falling to the sheets in despair and pain.

He reached out a gentle hand and took her under the chin, making her lift her eyes and look at him. “Your brother fares well and defends Rohan even now. Do not trouble your heart; he is strong and will find a way,” he said softly, comforting.

She nodded and smiled relieved as he withdrew his hand. “Thank you,” she said heartfelt.

“No, my lady, thank you for tending to me. I am in your debt,” Faramir said warmly, his eyes intense on her and she blushed, looking down.

“No debt needs to be paid, Faramir.”

“You also guessed the name of the son of Denethor you were tended to?” he asked surprised but pleased.

She smiled as she rose, putting the dirty bandages in the basin and walking to the door before she turned back to face him, the basin supported against her hip with one hand. “As children you were always the more kinder, gentler, of the two of you. I saw this gentleness in your eyes and touch today.”

Before Faramir could reply she had left, closing the door behind her. For the first time in as long as he could remember Faramir felt a sense of peace in his heart as he let himself rest; a peace disturbed only by his concern for his brother and friends.

* * *

Three weeks passed and Faramir grew stronger by the day. He was now able to move around on his own and the wound was closing, reduced to nothing but a mild distraction.

He had met Theoden but had not spoken much with the man, or rather was not allowed to. Wormtongue who was constantly at the King’ side had looked at him as if seeing a ghost. Even dressed in plain pants and a loose white shirt, clearly still recovering, Faramir’s presence had shocked the King’s advisor to a degree that had made Faramir suspicious. He had quickly agreed with Eowyn that her uncle was under a spell, his pained, old and drained appearance amplifying this fact and he agreed with her that Wormtongue was definitely dangerous. However, as it was there was little he could do but obey the King’s wishes that he did not desire to see him even though he knew the words were Wormtongue’s and not his.

A week ago he had been able to take a walk outside the palace and Eowyn had showed him the view, the stables and her most beloved horse, a gift from her brother. The two of them had spent a lot of time together and had grown closer yet there was no secrets shared and Faramir wished he knew what to do; how to explain what he was feeling. This desire he had to be near her, to please her. How he was sad if she wasn’t close, how his heart warmed if she smiled at him.

Faramir’s favourite place to be was the library filled with books Gondor did not have and he silently vowed he would try and get copies of the books should – no; when - the War ended with a successful outcome. When…he had to believe that or else he would have condemned his brother, both of his brothers, to death.

Faramir had just picked out a book from the library and seated himself in a soft chair, intent on enjoying the book in front of the fireplace in the library when he heard Eowyn’s voice from the hallway. Instinctively he paused his reading and listened, wishing not to eavesdrop but to make certain she was unharmed for her to speak so loudly that he could hear her through the stonewalls and the heavy wooden door.

“Stay away from me,“ she said strongly, anger and irritation in her voice and Faramir tensed, worry filling his heart.

“I ask little, princess, only that you are…kinder to me,” Wormtongue replied with obvious lust in his voice. Faramir had seen the way Wormtongue was lusting after the princess but though the man’s looks troubled him they had been just that, looks, and he knew he had no right to interfere. Besides, he had learnt Eowyn was quite good at taking care of herself verbally, not letting anyone try and subdue her. She had even shown him she could handle a sword when he accidentally had walked in on her practicing. She had feared his scorn for her achievement with the sword but he had smiled and had told her that he had found it impressive. He had never seen a woman like her before and it enchanted him. Apparently, he thought darkly, he was not the only one who was enchanted.

He went out into the hallway, leaving the book in the chair he had just left. He walked slowly towards where the two were standing, inches apart, Eowyn’s back pressed up against a stone column. Though she was cornered she did not act the part but gave Wormtongue an angry and disbelieving look.

“I am as kind to you as you deserve. Now, let me pass,” she said icily and tired to force her way past him but he was quicker and had her forced back against the column. This earned him another deadly glare from her eyes but nothing else; no hint of fear of any kind.

  
“Recall, princess, how easily I got your brother banded. It was for you I did not demand his life,” he warned, his eyes dark.

Eowyn’s eyes shot dangers at him. “Threaten my brother again and I shall have your head, even if I have to claim it myself!”

“Such fire,“ Wormtongue said with a leer and stroked her cheek but she tore her face away and he laughed softly before he grew serious, his eyes hardening. “I do enjoy our little games, princess, but they are beginning to bore me. Mayhap I should simply have your uncle order you to marry me.”

  
”I would rather marry an Orc!” she hissed.

Just then Faramir had reached them and he nodded polite at Eowyn as if everything was all right, knowing he had to be careful around Wormtongue since he did seem to hold power over the King. However, when he looked at Wormtongue his eyes were cold and hard.

“I swore to Eowyn’s brother I would see her safe. Threaten to make me break that vow and I will recall that Rohan and Gondor are no longer allies and that my allegiance lies with Gondor alone…not you or the commands of your puppet King,” he said evenly, his anger shining in his eyes but held at bay. He made no move to hide the way his hand resting on his sword handle was tightening. A week back when his health had improved enough he had taken to wear a sword with him at all times, finding it safer given his suspicions about Wormtongue. 

“That you live still is a mistake I will work hard to correct,” Wormtongue snared before turning around and walking away, knowing that in a fight Faramir would easily defeat him.

Faramir turned from watching Wormtongue to Eowyn, his anger disappearing to be replaced by concern. “Are you unharmed?”

“I am well. Thank you,” she said and they begun to walk back towards the library side by side. “I do, however, not need protection. I can take care of myself.”

He stopped, forcing her to do likewise. His eyes were soft as he looked at her and he had to force himself not to stroke a renegade lock of her long blond hair back behind her ear. “I know yet why should you?”

She did not know what to say so she resumed walking and he did as well. “How is your wound?” she asked, searching for more secure ground, afraid of the emotions his kinds words and gestures were awaking in her.

“It has healed well. Thank you, milady. You are an excellent healer,” Faramir said, knowing she was changing the subject on purpose and not sure why; it could mean she was feeling nothing for him or were feeling something but was afraid to admit it. He hesitated before he went on, his tone and face serious, “I will leave soon.”

  
She stopped in surprise and shock and he did likewise. She turned to face him, her face revealing too much for him to gain any kind of information from it, “You will return to your friends?”

  
”They search for the Hobbits I told you about, friends of mine also. I cannot leave my friends in peril. I have stayed longer than I needed, than I should, as it is,” he explained softly, though he did not wish to go. Not now. Or more correctly; he did not wish to leave her, which was why he had postponed his departure well after his wound had healed enough to make him capable of leaving.

“I shall miss you,” she admitted softly and he reached out a hand to stroke her cheek.

“I will carry you with me in my…memories,” he ended, wanting to have said heart yet she had not given any indication she had feelings in that direction. He suddenly wished his brother, Aragorn, Legolas or anyone else were here so he could seek advice. He mentally shook his head. No. He was fooling himself. What would a lady of such grace and strength as Eowyn wish with him? His father was right about him; he was not worthy of such a fine woman as this one.

“I…” she started to say, not sure what she would have said then, only knowing she could not let him leave like this. A sudden pain hit him, making her words remain unsaid.

“Ahhh!” he screamed in agony as his skull felt like it would explode. He sank to his knees on the floor, holding his hands to his head, not knowing what was happening but fearing it was the Ring for only its nearness had brought him such pain. Yet the Ring should not be near Edoras.

“Faramir!” she yelled terrified, her voice panicked, not sure how she could help and considered if she should call a healer yet she didn’t wish to leave him alone.

A series of images, feelings, flashed through his mind, moving so fast he felt dizzy and then, suddenly, mercifully, the pain and the images stopped, leaving him fighting for breath, trying to regain his posture and keep his hold on the reality the pain had almost managed to make him loose.

“Are you hurt?” Eowyn asked worried, kneeling beside his fallen form, a hand on his arm, feeling more at ease that at least he had stopped screaming as if whatever invisible enemy had attacked him had left again. “I shall call someone to help you to your room.”

Faramir’s hand got a grip on her wrist and prevented her from rising to do as she had said she would. “No, help me to my feet,” he asked breathlessly and she did so.

He drew a deep breath and drew back from her, standing on his own once more.

“Come, sit down,” she said softly and guided him to a chair which stood up against the wall in the hallway, normally used only for decoration purposes. He gratefully sat down and she stood before him, eyeing him worryingly.

“I…I saw images. Of things to come,” he told her shakily, still shocked by what he had seen, one hand massaging his temple in an attempt to make the pain fade away quicker.

“What did you see?” she asked, having heard rumours of Faramir and Boromir’s shared gift of visions.

“A fortress.” He thought for a while, briefly closing his eyes to focus on the images he had seen in his mind’s eye before he went on, looking at her, “It was Helm’s Deep. I recall it from when you showed it to Boromir and I when we visited Rohan as children,” Faramir explained, taking his other hand to his other temple in a gesture to make him help concentrate on what he had seen, having to fight to recall all the information, all the images, that had flashed past his inner eye faster than Legolas could put an arrow to his bow. The pain was gone now but the ordeal had left him exhausted and he longed to take rest but knew he could not. This was important. He knew it.

“Helm’s Deep would be a last defence,” she frowned, not liking that thought.

“Death will be there. So much death,” he whispered pained, recalling the images and wincing in sympathy.

“Can we prevent it?” she asked hopefully, ice claiming her heart at the thought of her country and her countrymen in such peril.

“Yes…yes, we can,” he said slowly, first realizing this now and he rose to his feet. She reached out a hand to help him up but he shook his head, caught up in this new realization and the great importance he was beginning to see it was. If he played his cards right this could change the whole outcome of the War. “I saw the movements of Saruman’s Orcs, the Orcs which will attack. If we attack first…they will be unaware,” he said as he looked at her, an eager and triumphant look in his eyes. They could do this; they had to do this.

“Rohan’s army is shattered. It will take time to gather all men and what we have here will not be enough,” Eowyn said with a frown, expecting him to tell her to be quiet and not interfere in war business as it was not thought a woman’s place to do so. To her pleasant surprise he nodded agreement, having considered her statement.

“I agree. In my vision I saw Elves. They came to our aid at Helm’s Deep, many dying in the battle. If they came then they will come now,” Faramir said confidently, his faith in the valour and grandeur of the Elven race having never faded through all the years.

“My uncle will never agree to send for aid or send riders out for raids based on your vision alone,” Eowyn admitted regretfully.

“Yet you believe the value of my word?” He asked, his eyes piercing into hers. He needed her to believe. He could not do this without having that assurance.

“Yes, I do. I cannot explain it but I do,” she said seriously, her voice and eyes steady and certain.

He smiled warmly, moved by her words. “Thank you,” he said and their eyes caught in a warm gaze. 

The moment was broken when his thoughts returned to the situation at hand and his smile faded as his attention was back at the enormous task he was talking himself into. “My visions come in dreams. I believe this vision came to me because of my connection to the One Ring…it could pain me when I thought of the suffering of others…now it has shown me even more. I believe this vision was not meant for me but I saw it due to the poison I fought which left me open to impressions from the Ring,” Faramir explained, thinking this was the only thing that made sense.

“The poison went deep. None believed you would live but me,” Eowyn revealed, nodding at his explanation.

“Then, mayhap, it was your…care and not herbs that brought me healing,” Faramir said softly, his eyes warm on her.

She smiled for a moment before she sobered. “You would know if you were send a false vision, would you not?” she asked a bit fearfully. If Rohan’s future was at stake they could not afford to play into their enemy’s hands.

Faramir considered this for a few moments before he nodded, his expression certain. “The feelings were real. The images therefore had to be as well.”

She nodded, relieved that he had considered her words and not been angered at her for suggesting it. “Very well.” She paused before she suggested, “I can try and speak with my uncle on this matter.”

“Nay. It would do no good. He is under Wormtongue’s spell.” Faramir fell silent, thinking. “Will you help me do this, without your uncle’s aid?” he asked seriously, looking her deep in the eyes. Alone he would never succeed. He needed her…in more ways than one.

“Foregoing the King is treason,” she said but it was a statement of fact only, her face and eyes betrayed she was considering his words, having known for a while that her uncle was not well.

“It will be dangerous but we have to do something. I would not ask you to risk so much if not I knew you had the strength to do so,” Faramir said warmly though with a hint of sadness that he had to ask this of her.

She looked at him in surprise and pleasure. “Thank you.” After a few seconds she added, her voice stronger, her expression grim, “What do you wish me to do?”

  
”Can you send a rider to Rivendell carrying a letter from me? I would not know who to trust and my Gondorian seal would not get me far.”

She nodded thoughtfully, already thinking of a way to get this done. “I can.”

“Come then, I shall write the letter at once. When it is sent I will need a dozen or so commanders you trust to follow my orders through you. They will be given the current whereabouts of Saruman’s Orc army,” Faramir said as he walked purposely towards the chamber Eowyn had assigned to him since he had arrived badly injured at her doorstep.

“It will not be easy to ask these men to betray their King,” she warned as she followed him down the hallway.

“To save Rohan they must. Surely they know the King is not himself,” Faramir said, his voice and eyes urgent.

She nodded, not sure all would be willing to accept this even if they had seen it for themselves but he had enough worries; this she would take care of. “I will see to it,” she vowed, happy to finally be able to do something to aid her nation.

He smiled warmly before he said, “Good. While you search for these men I shall try and formulate a battle plan. My brother is best at these kind of things yet this kind of warfare is for rangers and for this…I am well suited.”

They reached his chamber and he let her enter first, holding the door open for her before he closed the door behind them and went to his desk, taking up a pen and was to put it to paper when she put a hand on his arm, stopping him. He looked surprised up at her and had to remember how to breathe when he saw the warmth and gratitude in her eyes.

“Thank you for believing in me,” she said softly.

He smiled fondly. “Thank you for doing the same with me.”

  
She hesitated but then said, “You are not like other men.”

  
”Nor are you like other women. Do you truly believe that makes us to be in error?” He asked softly, a thought that had often plagued him.

She smiled shyly and removed her hand from him. “No. No, I do not.”

They had been together almost every day since he had arrived yet it was in this moment, surrounded by danger, about to commit an act of treason for which they could lose their lives…it was now they felt a connection greater than ever before and despite the danger and their nervousness their purpose and unity in their dangerous endeavour gave them strength.


	24. Schemes Of War And Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir and Eowyn work together in secret to do what they believe to be the right thing.

## Schemes Of War And Love

Though Faramir had feared for Eowyn’s safety he had never doubted her tenacity or strength. His faith was proved to be more than justified when their impulse plan began to take wings.

When they had decided to do this they had never realised how elaborate a scheme they were getting into and now, caught in it, they had no other choice but to dig themselves even deeper into the web of lies, secrecy and deceit they were weaving.

“Today’s reports have arrived,” Eowyn said when she entered Faramir’s chamber with a small bag, carefully looking left and right down the hallway before she closed the door to what had become Faramir’s study as well as his sleeping quarters.

It had been four weeks since they had sent a rider to Rivendell and started what was to become a very complex and stressful scheme. As time had passed they had fallen into a routine and a bond had been created between them.

Faramir ran a hand through his hair and could feel he had not slept since yesterday, having been caught up in a strategy plan he had needed to finish before a rider had been sent out this morning with orders to give the plan to the officer in charge of the Rohan warriors they had out battling Orcs to the north of the city. Faramir pushed himself a little away from the desk and the mess of letters, maps and other papers he had lying there, focusing on her.

“Go through them for me, please.”

She laid the reports on his desk, putting the now empty leather bag on the floor, letting it rest against his desk before she gave him a worried look. “You look tired. Have you slept at all?”

“I will as soon as there is time,” he replied and then gave her a warm look, “It is you I worry for. You not only have to organize all this, you also need to distract Wormtongue.”

She laughed. “He is easily distracted.”

“Mayhap not for long. He is getting suspicious,” Faramir said worried. “Please, be cautious.”

She nodded, sobering at once. They were playing a very dangerous game with more than their lives at stake but the lives of everyone she had helped get involved as well as the fate of Middle Earth itself. “I will.”

He hesitated but then added regretfully, “I wish you did not have to be involved in this.”

“I am honoured you trust me to be and I wish to be, more than I can explain.”

Their eyes met and he had to fight an urge to touch her. To distract himself he fiddled with the pen in his hand. “The reports…” he reminded her softly as she remained standing, looking warmly at him.

“Oh,” she blushed but then pulled herself together, getting down to the issue at hand at once. “Shall I summarize?”

Faramir nodded. “Yes. I shall read them in detail later.”

“Very well,” she took the first paper roll, broke the Rohir seal on it and quickly let her eyes run over it. “The patrol to the east has found the convoy of Orcs you sent them to find. They have been successful in a series of surprise attacks on the convoy but the Orcs counted 2000 to begin with.” She looked up. “The officer requests more troops.”

Faramir studied the map before him where he had drawn in troops movements for Rohan as well as where he in his vision had seen the various Orc columns which would gather to form the impressive attack force at Helm’s Deep and which they were now trying to thin and hopefully destroy all together before the Orcs would force them on the defence.

“For now he need not kill them all; they need just be removed from the scene of battle,” Faramir said thoughtfully. “Can you arrange to have more troops given to him without causing suspicion?”

Eowyn considered it. While she trusted her contacts in the army it was only because she had falsified her brother’s signature on the orders she brought that they listened to the orders she handed them and she had deliberately chosen men she knew were personal friends of her brother. She did not wish to admit to Faramir that they would not listen to her or believe her word alone on orders of this kind nor that Faramir’s word would not have been good enough either. However Faramir was right; Wormtongue was indeed becoming suspicious and troop movements did not go unnoticed forever, even here where news travelled slowly.

“In my brother’s name I should be able to free 400 troops.”

Faramir nodded. “Then so shall it be.”

She nodded, mentally reminding herself of his order before she moved on to the next report and let her eyes scan it. “The troops have still not seen any signs of Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli or the Hobbits,” she summarized, looking up from the paper as she spoke.

Faramir waved a hand to indicate she should take the next report. “No news in these times is often good news,” he said, feverishly praying it was true in this case. He had been so busy arranging Rohan’s defence he had only been able to spare a few worried thoughts towards his brother and friends once in a while and thought keeping busy might not be a bad thing as he knew him worrying would aid no one.

She nodded agreement to his assessment as she read the next report. “The rider you sent to Gondor to update your brother has been found dead.”

Faramir briefly closed his eyes in sympathy. He had sent that rider on his way and now he had to carry the burden of his death. He had sent people to their deaths before but it was never easy to live with. “We sadly knew this was a possibility with so many Orc patrols out.”

  
”The arrow that killed him…it was mortal. The design betrayed it was from Rohan or Gondor,” Eowyn revealed in horror, looking up from the letter in shock.

“What?!” Faramir asked in surprise and disbelief as he sat up straighter in his chair. “How can this be?”

“Since it was Gondor who broke the alliance between our two nations…” Eowyn began with a frown, knowing where she would place the blame but not wishing to step on his feelings, knowing how deeply he loved his nation.

“It could have been both sides,” Faramir said solemnly though he knew it was most likely the fault was Gondor’s. While he loved his nation he was not so blinded as to believe She was without error and mistakes, past and present. However, if news of this came out the Rohan soldiers might be distracted enough to consider Gondor a threat, mayhap even reserve resources to plan an attack on Her, just when they needed a unified front against Sauron.

“This news must stay between us. Send an order to the commander and swear him and his men to silence,” he ordered, frowning in concern not only for them but also for his brother because he was certain a command to kill messengers was not his…and if it was his brother would be lost to him, fallen into shadow.

“I will.” She paused before she added more gently, seeing the worry in his eyes, “This commander is a good man; he will not have spoken of this to anyone. He knows the stakes are too high to play such a game.”

Faramir took a deep relieved breath, pushing his concern for his brother to the back of his mind for now and smiled at her in thanks before he asked, “Anything else?”

“Yes, wounded are beginning to arrive in Edoras from the battles you have initiated. The Houses of Healing are filling up too fast for the small number of troops you command here to be able to shield this from the eyes of the King.”

“Our secret is coming undone,” Faramir mumbled darkly with concern in his voice though he had known time would work against them and even if they managed never to get caught time itself would end up revealing their secret to the world. Still, he had hoped for more time before it became such a pressing issue.

“When questioned on this matter earlier by my uncle I said it was simply the Orcs growing bolder and requested the return of my brother. Wormtongue did not believe this to be so and even had the nerve to say my brother was behind it,” Eowyn said concerned, with anger and disgust in her voice.

“Have anyone suspected these orders do not come from your brother?” Faramir asked with concern and she looked surprised and slightly shocked at him. He laid a hand over hers and smiled warmly. “Justified or not I know how the chain of command works. At home everyone save my rangers would question orders signed by me but never my brother.”

She blushed and looked down. “I am sorry I did not tell you.”

“I know why you did not yet I am saddened you would think it would matter to me why it works as long as we get the job done and Rohan and Her people are safe.” He had hoped she would think better of him by now; would know he was not like that.

She was stunned into silence by his words and felt a wave of heat ride up in her cheeks. She wished to explain, to take the sadness from his eyes, feeling guilty knowing she had put it there but her throat was dry and words were escaping her so she said nothing.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and smiled kind of sadly before he returned his attention to the matter at hand. “Is this all for now?”

“No. Commander Trian who I approached yesterday is ill at ease with what was suggested and wishes to bring the matter to the King,” she replied, glad that the conversation was back on subjects with which she emotionally felt safe.

Faramir frowned. “Has he done so yet?”

“No.”

He knew what was the logical thing to do; the safe thing to do. He knew Boromir would have known just the right way to do this, that he would have sacrificed whoever needed to be sacrificed to keep the country, the people, safe. Yet, as he had been painfully made aware of all his life, he was not his brother. “Is there a chamber somewhere in this palace which lies isolated and remote, where no one will hear the sound of human voices?”

“Yes. There is a tower…” she began but then stopped as she realized what he was thinking, “You wish to trap him in there?!” she asked surprised and shocked.

“Yes.”

“For the remains of the war? You cannot!” she protested. No one knew how long the War would last. Trian was a good man; they couldn’t simply hold him captive!

  
“If he goes to the King Saruman will hear of it through Wormtongue and he will move his troops, crushing our advantage and bringing death to the people of Rohan,” Faramir explained with certainty yet with sadness over what he was doing clear in his voice. “It is either contain the man…or kill him.”

She fought down her anger and nodded, realizing he was right. “I shall have some of the loyal guards move him to the chamber.”

There was a long stillness until Faramir pushed his chair back and turned it so he was facing her. He ran his hands over his face and briefly rested his face in his hands, his elbows on his knees before he lifted his head and looked up at her. “Am I in wrong here?” he asked softly, agonized, letting the doubt show he normally fought so hard to keep locked up inside. Years of being told he was worthless, that he was always making mistakes, was hard to outrun when he had neither his brother’s nor Aragorn’s voice to lead him on. “I am not meant to be a leader of war…I am no longer sure of where I saw the Orcs in my vision…how many there were.”

She knelt before him and laid her hands over his, looking him in the eyes. “Hush,” she said softly, kindly. “What you saw you have told me…I shall help you remember.”

“Thank you,” he said heartfelt, lifting his head to look into her eyes.

She reached up a hand and softly stroked some hair back behind his ear. “You are the man meant to help us…help me. I have faith in you.”

He shook his head. “You should not. I let people down,” he said sadly with a grimace, his father’s words echoing in his mind.

“I know not many save your brother has said this but it is true; you are a great man,” she said heartfelt and he smiled fondly, feeling warmth spread through his body, her kindness and faith lifting him up and giving him the strength to keep going.

“I could get so lost in you and yet never desire to search for a way back,” he said hoarsely as he reached out a hand and cupped her face, feeling his heart beat fast in his chest as his entire body longed to touch her, taste her, let her know how much he adored her and how hard it was for him to see her every day, being so near yet so endlessly far away from her.

The moment was alive with energy and slowly he leant forward, his lips inches from hers, hopefully searching.

Suddenly she drew back and rose. “I will…go carry out your latest orders,” she mumbled with a blush, not sure why her voice was so shaky, why she was blushing, why her heart was beating so fast.

He leant back in his chair, a feeling of loss in his heart. “Eowyn,” Faramir said softly as she was at the door. She stopped but did not turn around to face him, sure her face would reveal more than she dared to show if she did. “You may hide behind protocol for now yet remember I see you not as anything less than my equal with strengths and weaknesses as any other. That you have become a weakness of mine, a weakness I never wish to rid of, I pray you will consider when you walk these halls alone.”

Eowyn said nothing but simply left, closing the door softly, almost thoughtfully, behind her. Faramir looked at the closed door for some time before he rose, deciding to go visit the wounded in some of the Houses of Healing to see if he could offer assistance and comfort and maybe, through this act of sympathy and compassion, let go of just a little of his burden of loss and guilt.


	25. Uncovering The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir and Eowyn's scheme is discovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter for this week's last big update. I hope someone enjoys it in these hard times.  
> If you liked it then I would love it if you left kudos and a comment. It would make my day so please do consider it; even just an emoji. Thank you. :)

## Uncovering The Truth

Deep down Faramir and Eowyn had known their scheme would be discovered; there were far too many who were not with them. They had not spent a lot of time thinking about this though. Life had become hectic and the one goal; to keep Rohan safe, had pushed all other concerns to the back of their minds.

It had been eight weeks and wounded and dead kept being taken to Edoras. The battles were becoming strained. They needed the Elves now but they had still not received any letters from Rivendell and after the disaster with the other rider Faramir had not dare send for Gondor a second time.

“Were you summoned before the King as well?” Faramir softly asked Eowyn as he walked the hallway towards the King’s throne room.

She nodded, as concerned as him by this order they had been given. “Yes.”

“Something has happened,” he said worried. It was not a question; her face gave away that something was amiss.

“The couriers coming in last night were intercepted by the palace guard, the letters brought to the King. Possibly someone has betrayed us,” she explained, speaking softly as she eyed the corridor to make certain it was empty. They both began to walk slower, giving them more time to prepare before they reached the throne room.

“Has Wormtongue left or sent a courier to Saruman?”

“Not yet.”

“That cannot happen,” Faramir said with certainty. If it did all was lost. As long as Saruman was in the unknown they had a chance of fighting back; of winning.

“I took the liberty of giving one last order on your behalf; that the guards loyal to Eomer should detain any messenger Wormtongue sends…or himself if he rides.”

“It will merely delay the inevitable and kill the guards who do obey us but it is all we can do,” Faramir agreed, his heart heavy at the very thought. He knew this was most likely the end for him; it would be hard for him to talk his way out of this with Wormtongue having been itching to find a way to get rid of him since he had interrupted Wormtongue and Eowyn in the hallway. He just hoped she would be able to escape all this unharmed but regardless of what was to happen he needed to express just a little of what he was feeling for her so he smiled at her and said warmly, “I am lucky to have had such a talented assistant in all this.”

She smiled warmly and blushed, moved by his words as well as the unspoken feelings that vibrated between them. “Thank you.”

“Do we know what reports the couriers were bringing?” Faramir asked concerned, changing the subject to stop himself from expressing his desire to kiss her. Though Saruman had not been alerted then this was still worse than he had feared.

“All the reports from the Eastern troops as well as short reports on the Orcs’ movements and the latest figures over losses.”

“In short they have everything,” Faramir said grimly. It would be hard to find a reliable lie to save them now.

She nodded, concern in her eyes. “All bearing Eomer’s signature.”

“Even Wormtongue will not believe it possible for an exiled Marshal to arrange for such control and he will never believe your brother would choose his base of operations to be the palace he has been banned from,” Faramir said with a grimace. Sadly, while Wormtongue was a deceiving and annoying creature, he was not stupid.

“What is your plan?” she asked as they reached the double door to the throne room, stopping right before it, as she turned to face him, ready to follow his lead on this.

He gave her a fond look. “Keeping you safe.”

Before she could reply the guards opened the doors to the throne room and they walked in. The King sat on his throne, Wormtongue right behind him.

“Your Highness,” Faramir said and bowed for him while Eowyn curtsied, both doing a masterful job at hiding their nervousness and the fast beating of their hearts.

“The man plays false even now! Did I not say Gondor could not be trusted?” Wormtongue said, looking at the noblemen and guards gathered in the large throne room, standing near the walls to give the two newly arrived space to speak before the King.

“I do not know what you mean,” Faramir said, faking shock as Eowyn and him rose and looked straight at the King. Having her near gave him strength and helped him look Wormtongue right in the eyes as he said his lie.

“I have here reports,” Wormtongue waved at him with a roll of preachment bearing Rohan’s seal…broken. “Signs of treason.”

“I have not signed any such documents,” Faramir said truthfully enough since Eowyn had falsified Eomer’s signature on them.

“It may be that cursed Marshal’s name on them but I am not a fool,” Wormtongue hissed angrily, his eyes becoming two small lines.

“I signed them in his name,” Eowyn said boldly, taking a step forward and ignoring Faramir’s shocked look and vague motion to hold her back. “It is my right with his permission to do so.” True, she had not had his permission but she knew he would have given it to her and in any case it would be hard to prove her words false.

“Our Princess may have many talents,” Wormtongue said with a lustful glee at Eowyn that made Faramir wish to hit him, “but organizing an army I am certain is not one of them.” He paused before he went on, his eyes resting on each person in the room in turn, “These orders, these latest attacks which have cost hundreds of our men their lives or limbs, reeks of the mind of a ranger,” Wormtongue declared, by his words clearly speaking to the gathered noblemen and guards to get their support.

“Uncle, please…our people are dying…you must act now,” Eowyn plead with him, knowing where this was heading but her uncle simply sat there, like an old puppet, his eyes betraying he was not really seeing or hearing her.

“Your uncle knows that war only brings death,” Wormtongue said darkly, dismissing the mention of the King as unimportant before his eyes came to rest on Faramir and rage lit up his face. “Do you know the punishment for high treason?”

Faramir nodded, refusing to be cowered. He was a son of Gondor; he would face death with honour…he would make his brother and Aragorn proud. His only regrets were that he would never see the people he loved again or his beloved homeland. “Death I presume.”

Wormtongue was clearly thrown by his calm and fought to regain control of the situation. “Guards! Take this traitor to the yard and execute him. It is the will of the King,” he insisted and turned to the King, whispering something in his ear.

“Yes…yes,” the King whispered weakly, his voice worn and tired.

“No!” Eowyn yelled and ran to her uncle, kneeling beside his chair, her hands on his nearest knee. Her eyes were pleading as she looked into her uncle’s unfocused gaze, her voice thick with emotions. “Uncle, please…I beg of you. He did it for Rohan…to save us. Please.”

“You heard the order…get on with it!” Wormtongue insisted and waved the guards towards Faramir when Eowyn’s plea to the King made them hesitate.

“I shall not make it that easy for you! You are the true traitor here, servant of Sauron!” Faramir yelled, spiting the words out like poison as he drew his sword, trying to keep an eye on all the approaching guards at once.

“Faramir, no!” Eowyn yelled as she saw him engage the twenty or so guards who had surrounded him. There was no way he could win. She turned a tearstained face to her uncle. “Uncle, please! Stop this!”

Her uncle’s eyes were dead but she continued to plea with him, more out of desperation than any real hope that he would hear her.

Faramir was managing to hold the guards off but they were too many. His attention divided one of the guards attacked and managed to cut him a deep wound on his right arm that started bleeding at once. The blood made his grip slippery and he had to change sword hand. This disadvantage had one of the guards force him backwards; he stumbled and lost his sword which went flying across the throne room. The guards were on him at once and he was forced to his knees, a sword at his neck, and a guard’s hand in his hair, forcing his head backwards in a bruising grip.

“You see the King is ill. You know Orcs are at your gate. I do not deny my method was dishonourable but you forced my hand. What I did I did for Rohan,” Faramir said, his eyes sweeping the room and had most of the guards and noblemen avoid his gaze, too uncertain of the truth in his words to meet him head on, not wishing his words to be true yet fearing they were.

“Lies of a traitor!” Wormtongue spat and moved from his place beside the King to slap Faramir in the face, the force of it forcing Faramir’s face to fly to the side as the guard’s hand in his hair disappeared to allow this movement.

“Stop it!” Eowyn yelled, running to knee before Faramir in a rush of movement, her dress swinging elegantly around her as she took his face in her hands, her eyes filled with worry. “Are you unhurt?”

  
He nodded, smiling a bit. Strange question for a man about to be executed but somehow it made him feel better to look into her eyes; the feel of her hands on his face made him relax all the way to his soul.

“I am better now that you are here,” he said softly, warmly. Seeing her face as the last thing before he left this world would not be a bad thing and he felt himself find a kind of peace with what he knew was to come.

“Get on with it,” Wormtongue snared, tearing Eowyn away from Faramir and to her feet with a bruising grip on her arm.

“Get your hands off her!” Faramir roared, fighting to get to his feet only to have the guards tightening their grip on him painfully, his wounded arm being manhandled to the point of having him fight back a scream of pain and seeing stars before his eyes.

“The King grows weary of hearing his voice. Take him away,” Wormtongue ordered and waved a hand at them. He dragged Eowyn with him towards the throne when he suddenly stopped and looked back at where the guards had forced Faramir to his feet and were now forcing him to walk towards the door. “And bring me his head. Let that be a warning that none shall disgrace King Theoden of Rohan ever again.”

“No!” Eowyn yelled and fought to free herself. She put her foot down hard on one of his and then span around in his grip, using her free hand to slap his face, hard. He released her with a surprised sound and she ran to Faramir, embracing him awkwardly since the guards were still holding him, forcing his arms behind his back, making his wound on his arm throb in agony.

“It will be alright,” he tried to calm her, his voice warm and smoothing as he laid his head on top of hers, feeling her tears.

She drew back and looked at him with tears and pain in her eyes. He looked lovingly down at her, wishing he could touch her face.

She put a hand on each side of his face as if she had read his mind, tears running down her cheeks. “How can I let you go now where I have just seen in your eyes all we could have had?” she asked brokenly.

“Shhh…do not say that,” Faramir said softly, tears falling down his cheeks as well. “It will get better. Everything will get better,” he mumbled, not really sure what he was saying, his soul in turmoil, his heart breaking, stuck on the fact that she had said they could have shared something more…something beautiful.

“I lost Eomer. I let them take him from me,” she whispered agonized. “I cannot let them take you as well.” A hint of steel came to her eyes and she drew back from him, her hands falling to her sides, making fists. “And I will not!”

  
“Enough of this,” Wormtongue ordered in a bored voice, having remained where Eowyn had left him, between Faramir and the King.

Eowyn rose and walked to Wormtongue with determined steps, stopping just in front of him.

“Let him go,” she said calmly.

Wormtongue looked at her in disbelief and amusement. “And why would the King release a traitor?”

  
She moved a step closer, their bodies an inch apart. “Release him…and I shall marry you,” she said evenly, fighting to keep her face and voice impassive though the very thought of what she was saying was repulsive to her. Still, for Faramir’s safety it was a price she paid gladly.

“NO! You cannot!” Faramir yelled but was silenced by a blow to the face from one of the guards that split his lip.

“You will wed me willingly? You will come to the marriage bed willingly?” he asked with lust shining in his eyes, licking his lips at the mere thought.

She had to fight back her repulsion but nodded, promise and certainty in her voice as she spoke, “Release him and I will.”

“Eowyn, no…please,” Faramir mumbled, fighting to get his breath back from the hit. He could not let her do this!

“It is the only way,” Eowyn said calmly but with a hint of warmth in her voice yet she was not looking at him but at Wormtongue.

“I cannot be free on these conditions,” he tried again and a guard hit him again, this time in the stomach, to silence him.

“Yes, you will,” she insisted, her eyes piercing into Wormtongue. He had to be free; he had to live. For Rohan… for her. That was all that mattered.

“He has ruined much for us,” Wormtongue said so softly only she could hear it, his eyes nodding towards Faramir. His plan had been well carried out and had weakened Saruman significantly. If he had gotten the extra troops, Elven troops, he could quite possibly have defeated Saruman.

“I shall never come to you in any other way than this,” Eowyn said strongly and he looked her up and down.

“No, I reckon you would not,” he said softly, a hint of pain in his eyes that disappeared quickly. He went to the King and whispered in his ear. Then he stood up straight and declared, “The King feels benevolent today. He will spare the life of the traitor and approves of the marriage between his niece, Princess Eowyn, and myself,” he said with a solemn voice.

Eowyn took a relieved breath that Faramir was free but dread crept over her at the thought of the price she would have to pay. Still, she would go through with it. Faramir would be safe. That was all that mattered.

“Guards, take the traitor and lock him up in the dungeon. It is the order of your King,” Wormtongue went on, waving at the guards to move.

“No!” Eowyn protested, horror written on her face. “You said he would be free!”

Wormtongue walked to her and whispered in her ear, ignoring the look of accusation and hate she was sending him, “If he is free what prevents you from breaking your vow to me?”

“I give you my word. My word is as strong a bond to my honour than any man’s,” she said through clashed teeth, enraged at having her integrity questioned by a man who was as deceitful as a man could be.

“I never put much trust in the words or honour of others,” Wormtongue whispered back with humour and victory in his eyes.

The guards began to drag Faramir away who was fighting to get his wits back together after the row of shocks Eowyn’s gesture had brought him.

“Eowyn, do not do this! Promise me you will not!” he yelled as they dragged him towards the door, panic and pleading in his voice. How could he survive knowing she was suffering for him? Because of him?

“It will be alright,” she whispered softly, not sure who she was trying to calm.

“Now that we are engaged…I wish my fiancé to stop concerning herself with a lowly prisoner and kiss me,” Wormtongue said harshly, jealousy playing in his eyes and she knew he did it just to pain Faramir.

“Eowyn! Do not!” Faramir yelled, fighting his guards even harder but to no avail; he was still being dragged further away from Eowyn and towards his pending imprisonment.

Eowyn fought back her anger and rage at Wormtongue’s request, a request she knew she could not refuse. “If you wish,” she said sweetly, a dangerous gleam in her eyes. He formed his lips to a kiss only to have her kiss his cheek instead.

“Clever, Princess,” he mumbled darkly as she drew back. He caught her wrist in a bruising grip, making her look him in the eyes, her lips drawn into a stubborn line. “Do not let it become a habit though.”

  
Her eyes gleamed in anger as she tore her wrist free. ”Believe me; kissing you shall never be a habit of mine.”

“I can see I shall have to teach you some manners and the proper place of a future bride. I am sure I shall enjoy doing so,” Wormtongue said darkly, looking her over in a manner that did not even try to hide what he was hinting at.

“Lay hand against her and I swear I will kill you!” Faramir raged as he had managed to slow the guards down but not enough. The guards were to open the large doors leading from the room when suddenly they were opened from the outside and a man entered with determined steps, looking like he had travelled long and fought hard.

“Aragorn!” Faramir breathed in relief and happiness when he saw he was well; bruised, tired and dirty but well. Aragorn would know what to do; he would find a solution to the predicament he found himself in and he had never been too proud to ask for help when he needed it. He spotted Legolas and Gimli entering behind Aragorn following by….

“Gandalf! You have returned!” Faramir yelled happily though shocked, in his joy forgetting his physical and emotional distress as his face lit up in a large smile.

“What madness is this?” Gandalf asked sharply as the four people had entered and looked around at the scene before them. Everyone seemed to have frozen to the spot, unsure of how to handle the intrusion.

Aragorn turned his attention to the guards holding Faramir right beside him since he had stopped just inside the room while Gandalf walked towards the King.

“Unhand this man, at once,” Aragorn demanded calmly but deadly, the hand on his sword tightening, his full attention on the guards holding Faramir.

“He has been judged a traitor,” one of the guards protested. Before he could say anything else he had Aragorn’s sword at his throat.

“Speak ill of him again and the words shall be your last,” he vowed deadly. Legolas came up on his right, aiming an arrow at one of the other guards, Gimli on Aragorn’s left, raising his axe for an attack.

“My bond brother speaks true. Unhand the Steward’s son,” Legolas began calmly. The guard he was aiming at made a motion towards his sword. “Do not draw arms. I shall have you and two of your friends dead on the floor before the movement is halfway.”

The guard froze at Legolas’ words, as did all the others but remained holding Faramir in their grip, unsure of what was true and what was fable in regard to Elves.

“Unhand him. Now!” Aragorn demanded harshly when the guards did not draw back. At his sharp command the guards drew away from Faramir, frightened by the certain promise of death in Aragorn’ eyes if they did not do as he ordered.

Exhausted Faramir fell to his knees on the floor, unable to hold his own weight after the guards had let go of him, having used up all his strength in his concern for Eowyn and his desperate attempts to free himself from the guards. At once Aragorn was beside him, a hand on his shoulder.

“It is good to see you well,” Faramir said with a strained smile at Aragorn. He looked up at Legolas and Gimli and smiled as a way to wave away the concern on their faces. “All of you.”

“I would say the same only you do not look well,” Legolas said concerned.

“I send you to safety and you get wounded. Boromir will not be pleased with me,” Aragorn said with humour in his voice as he was checking Faramir for injuries, his hands carefully running over Faramir’s chest and Faramir winced in pain. Aragorn tore a piece of his shirt and began to bind it around the deep cut in Faramir’s arm to stop the bleeding, knowing he had to do more and soon. It was a nasty and deep cut and needed to be stitched and cleaned; already the blood loss was worrying him.

“Nor with me,” Faramir said with a smile before he grew serious. “Gandalf is back. It brings joy to my heart yet I am confused how this can be. Did he not truly perish? Did we leave him wounded?” Guilt and pain was in his voice at this very thought.

“He is eternal,” Aragorn explained briefly, his thoughts on Faramir’s welfare and he looked worried at Faramir, looking into his pain clouded eyes. “You have lost a lot of blood. I fear you have also broken a rib or two. I must tend to your injuries.”

“I must first see if Eowyn is well. Help me up, please,” he asked and leaning heavily on Aragorn he got to his feet, Aragorn holding an arm around his waist. Legolas put his arrow away and Gimli his axe and they went towards the throne. They saw Gandalf say a spell towards the King, Wormtongue lying unconscious against one of the walls of the room, probably having been expelled by Gandalf’s power.

“Faramir!” Eowyn yelled and ran to him, stopping in front of him and eyed Aragorn suspiciously and then looked back at her uncle, her eyes and voice filled with fear and panic. “Do you know the man who hurts my uncle? You must tell him to stop. My uncle is in pain.”

“Do not fear. Gandalf is saving your uncle’s soul from Sauron. He will be fine,” Faramir calmed her and reached his unhurt hand towards her, which she took, having faith in his judgement.

A sudden blinding light made everyone look towards the throne and when the light faded away they saw Theoden had changed appearance; he now looked well and fitting his age, a confused but calm and vigilant look in his eyes.

“What has happened?” Theoden asked confused, looking surprised at the strangers standing before him.

Eowyn ran to him and embraced him, smiling widely. Her uncle hugged her back though confusion over her enthusiasm was clear in his eyes and face. “You are well!” she said happily.

Faramir looked at her with a smile. “She is well,” he mumbled and the relief after so much fear and excitement, the blood loss and the fact that he hadn’t gotten much sleep ever since his vision of Rohan’s possible fate, made his feet give way under him.

“Careful. You must lie down now so I can tend to you. Let me guide you,” Aragorn said with warmth and concern, holding a strong arm around his waist.

“Don’t let Wormtongue leave the palace nor send any men from here,” Faramir warned, gripping Aragorn’s shirt in the front with one hand to get his full attention.

“I will see to it,” he promised.

“Good,” Faramir said relieved as he felt his vision go foggy around the edges, his grip on Aragorn losing and he would have slipped to the floor had Aragorn not had a strong grip on him.

“Do not worry. I shall see to everything…you just get well,” Aragorn’s warm and worried voice was the last thing Faramir heard before he with peace of mind let the darkness take him, having complete faith in Aragorn and his abilities.


	26. Love Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir and Aragorn talk of love and other matters. Later Aragorn talk with Elrond about the struggles he may face in changing the culture in Gondor.

## Love Revealed

Faramir was awoken by a gentle touch to his injured arm but despite the gentleness then his wound was still fresh enough for the touch to send a wave of discomfort through him and bring him back to awareness.

When he opened his eyes he saw he was in the same chamber he had been in when Eowyn had nursed him back to health only it was now Aragorn who sat by his bedside.

Aragorn caught his eyes and smiled at him. “You have awoken.”

Faramir saw that Aragorn had showered and changed since he had seen him last and was now dressed finely, his shirt royal red. The fresh and noble look suited him well.

“I feared you a dream,” Faramir admitted, smiling relieved at him, still amazed that much of his concern and worry as well as his burden had now been eased after what felt like forever carrying the fate of a nation on his shoulders.

“I am quite real,” Aragorn assured him with humour sparkling in his eyes but in a warm tone before he begun to dress Faramir’s wound in a fresh bandage. “You are healing nicely,” Aragorn let him know as he worked. “I have bandaged your ribs and your arm. Try and keep both as still as possible in the coming days.”

  
“I will,” Faramir promised. “How long…” he began to ask but was interrupted by Aragorn who knew just what he was going to say.

“Not long. I arrived yesterday before dusk.”

Faramir nodded before he asked worried, “And the war effort?”

Aragorn finished the bandage and sat up, looking him in the eyes. “The King’s mind is once more his own and he supports the effects you have made after princess Eowyn explained everything.”

  
“There is a commander…” Faramir begun, his voice caught between worry, guilt and embarrassment.

“In the tower chamber, yes I know. Eowyn told me. We released him,” Aragorn interrupted him, wishing to calm him with this assurance.

“He is not mad?”

“He understands.” Aragorn paused and then smiled, “What were you thinking to do with him anyway?”

Faramir squirmed uncomfortably. “I know not. I had not thought so far ahead.”

  
Aragorn grew serious. “You had expected to die here,” Aragorn realized, melancholy in his voice.

“I knew if the Elves did not arrive, my plan would fail and I knew it would not be possible to trick so many people for very long,” Faramir said softly, not denying Aragorn’s conclusion.

Aragorn was taken back by Faramir’s willingness to sacrifice himself. Boromir would also have done the right thing, of this Aragorn was certain, but he would never have accepted that this was a road that would demand his life. Boromir would see that as admitting defeat. Himself…he would have taken Faramir’s route only if there was no other way. Faramir seemed to take this option at once, willingly giving his life before making much of an effect to try and find a plan that would not cost him his life.

“Boromir would never had forgiven me nor himself had you perished here alone,” Aragorn said softly, heartfelt before he quietly added, “I would not have forgiven myself.”

“It would have been my decision to make,” Faramir protested though he felt the loving scorn of Aragorn’s concern make heat rise in his cheeks.

“Though in the eyes of the law you are still a child I have always respected your right to make your own decisions and I always will…on everything but this,” Aragorn said honestly, his voice agonized by the very thought of losing the young man who he had come to love like the little brother he had never had. “You give your life far too easily. Do you not see that your life… **you** matter?” Aragorn added urgently, his eyes and voice almost pleading with Faramir to understand how much he meant to him and so many other people but Faramir did not seem to see this.

Faramir blushed. “I am sorry I worried you,” he said softly.

“I worry for all my brothers yet you are my only little brother. You hold a special place in my heart,” Aragorn said quietly, not realizing how much he was saying with that remark, as Boromir was also younger than him. Somehow Boromir had always been more of a brother in arms, a brother who needed a different kind of protection and support from him than Faramir did. Though he was younger in years Boromir had lost his innocence and the carefree feeling of youth so early that Aragorn rarely recalled he was in fact younger to him. Aragorn stroked some hair out of Faramir’s eyes like he had when he was a small child, trying to convey to him that he was safe and cared for.

Faramir smiled contently, blushing happily at Aragorn’s warm words before a thought hit him. “Did you find Elrond’s son?” he asked worried, Aragorn’s remark on brothers having lead his thoughts to Aragorn’s new brothers; Elrond’s twin sons.

Aragorn nodded soberly. “Saruman held him captive in his dungeon. We freed him. He is in the chamber next to yours, recovering. He will be fine.”

Faramir sighed in relief. He could not even begin to imagine the pain it must be to lose a child, and then a child you had never expected to die; ever. Then Aragorn’s words caught up with him and he looked surprised at him. “You went to Isengard?”

“Actually the Hobbits did,” Aragorn said with a fond smile.

  
“Merry and Pippin are alive?” Faramir asked joyously.

“Yes and they are eager to see you when you are feeling better,” Aragorn said with a smile.

“I will love to see them!” Faramir said with a wide smile of his own. Then he frowned. “What of Saruman? How did you escape from him?” The man was a powerful wizard; surely that could not have been easy.

“Merry and Pippin convinced the Ents to go to war. When we arrived Isengard was destroyed and Gandalf killed Saruman in self defence.”

“And Saruman’s Orcs?”

“The ones he had kept at Isengard were destroyed but the armies he had already send out are still out there, unaware of his demise. Rohan is still fighting them but we need more men,” Aragorn admitted grimly.

“The Elves have not yet come?” Faramir asked, trying to hide his disappointment. They would come. They would. They were his hero people…of course they would come in their hour of need.

“They will be here. The road from Rivendell is long and mayhap Elrond has gathered Elves from the Golden Wood and Mirkwood as well to strengthen our numbers,” Aragorn reasoned, having complete faith in his foster father.

“Of course. That must be it,” Faramir agreed and forced himself to relax. “How are the others?” he asked with a smile, forcing both of their thoughts on to more pleasant matters.

“They are well. Merry and Pippin are in the kitchen, trying to get some treats from the cook,” Aragorn said with a smile and Faramir smiled back at this, easily able to imagine the havoc the two of them could wrack on the poor kitchen staff. “Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli are in the throne room speaking with the King on how to proceed. Eowyn is there as well. We have sent a rider to try and locate Eomer but I did not send for Gondor. I was shown the arrow and it is Gondor’s design,” Aragorn revealed, frowning in concern; like Faramir his concern resting with Boromir’s fate.

“The orders of my father. He does not trust Rohan,” Faramir said but caught the look of agonized doubt in Aragorn’s eyes, knowing just what he was thinking because he had feared the same. “My brother has not fallen into shadow. I would know it if he had,” he said with certainty. They were brothers, connected by more than blood, more than their visions. He would know…despite the distance. He had to believe that or he would go mad with worry. He shook his head as if to clear it of such dark thoughts and laid his good arm on his chest, his hand on his heart. “I feel him here…in my heart, in my soul. He is still alive in the light,” he added quietly.

  
“I hope so,” Aragorn said softly, wishing he were as sure. He did not doubt Boromir’s strength but he knew everyone had a breaking point. It was not just unreasonable but also unnatural to assume Boromir’s would be so much higher than any other mans’.

“I considered contacting Eomer as well but he think himself an outlaw. He will avoid all riders bearing the mark of Rohan,” Faramir said, changing the subject.

Aragorn nodded. “If the rider does not find him we will wait for him to find us when the news about Saruman reaches the Riddermark.”

“What did you do with Wormtongue?” Faramir asked with a hint of anger at the man and curiosity over Aragorn’s decision.

“The decision was not mine to make but King Theoden’s. He had him thrown in the dungeon. He will be well cared for but will never again be free.”

Faramir nodded, relieved to hear the man was contained; Eowyn would be safe from him now.

“Until the War ends it is probably best he is not allowed to run free.”

“He tried to kill you. I fear I would have challenged the man to combat and killed him,” Aragorn said evenly. “Not a very kingly gesture.”

“No…a brotherly one,” Faramir said softly and briefly squeezed Aragorn’s hand with his unhurt one.

Aragorn laughed at that. “Your brother would have killed the man where he stood.”

Faramir smiled a fond smile of remembrance as he thought of his brother. “True.”  
  


They sat in comfortable silence for a while before Aragorn reluctantly said, “I should let you get some rest.”

“Nay, stay and speak with me for a while, please,” Faramir requested, his good hand having a firm grip on Aragorn’s arm.

Aragorn nodded and Faramir released his arm as Aragorn tried to get more comfortable sitting at his bedside. “There is something on your mind?”

He hesitated but then decided honesty was always the best approach, “You have met the princess Eowyn?” He asked, knowing Aragorn had but finding it hard to breach the subject.

Aragorn nodded. “Yes. A beautiful but very strong willed woman.”

“What do you think of her?”

“I have but met her yet she seem like a lovely lady,” Aragorn said with slight confusion as to where this was going.

“What would you think of her as a…wife?” Faramir asked, fighting down his embarrassment at mentioning his innermost desire out loud, afraid to be told he would never stand a chance to win her affection.

“She is not like other women. She would demand a certain kind of husband,” Aragorn said thoughtfully. He hadn’t thought of the princess before now but he wished to give Faramir a reply he could use since this seemed important to him so he took great care to remember everything about her and draw his best conclusions on this. “She wishes to be seen as an equal to a man in all ways, she wishes to be taken into council on all decisions. I believe she would bow only to a man she find worthy of this and who will take her submission as a gift and treat her with respect and care,” he mused out loud.

Faramir listened intensely, having thought something like that himself. “What kind of man would she agree to marry?” Faramir asked, trying not to get his hopes up. Over the weeks he had fallen in love with her and he knew that this was the woman who could make him happy. This was the woman he wished to spend the rest of his days with. The question was…did she wish the same?

“A man she finds worthy of her love, I would assume,” Aragorn said but then he saw Faramir expected him to say more so he added, “Someone who is gentle, someone who does not need to show his manliness by putting her down. A man secure in his own abilities to be where he want to be, a man who does not need or wish for power, glory or control. A man who is not afraid to admit to being weak or needing help. A man who does not let others’ opinion rule his own.”

Faramir thought about this for a few minutes, looking intensely at Aragorn. “I see.” He felt his courage leave him. For Aragorn to think about all this…surely he had found Eowyn attractive as well and he knew against Aragorn he did not stand a chance nor did he desire to even try.

“You love her,” Aragorn concluded gently.

Faramir nodded miserably. “I will step aside for you.”

Aragorn looked surprised at him. “For me? I do not desire the girl.” To him there was only one woman who had and would ever hold a piece of his heart; Arwen.

Faramir looked surprised yet relieved at him. “You do not?”

Aragorn shook his head and smiled. “No.”

“Why not?” he asked curiously, unable to understand why any man would not wish to be with Eowyn. In his eyes she was perfection personified.

Aragorn shrugged. “She is a great woman yet not what I am looking for.”

“What are you looking for?” Faramir asked curiously, really wanting to know. The only other woman he could think of who Aragorn might find interesting would be the Princess Arwen yet he would have had ample opportunity to propose to her while he stayed in Rivendell but apparently he had not.

 _Good question_ , Aragorn thought with a smile. Faramir had always been very insightful. “Someone to share the burden of my future Kingship with me. Someone…someone I can share everything I am with.” He smiled just at the thought of Arwen by his side, sharing all his days and all his nights.

Faramir nodded and smiled, a dreamily look in his eyes. “That is what I see in Eowyn. Such strength.”

“A passion held back, making you wish to see what will happen if you can unleash it,” Aragorn mumbled, his thoughts far away, drifting. Arwen smiling at him…warm, almost inviting…secretive…passion hidden under beauty, innocence and protocol.

“Such pain in her eyes you just wish you can take away,” Faramir went on, thinking about Eowyn, how she would draw away from him if he were too close to breaching her defences.

“Afraid to get hurt…afraid to hurt others,” Aragorn went on, images playing before his mind’s eye. Arwen with her father, trying her best to balance all she was with all she wanted to have, hoping to walk a line that would please everyone she loved.

“Afraid she will turn you down; find you unworthy,” Faramir whispered.

“Risk everything…change the teachings of a lifetime…can it even be done?” Aragorn mused, thinking of Elrond and his still bitter taste of human failure from thousands of years back. More than Elrond and the other Elves…would his own people be able to accept a non-human Queen? Would his brothers? Despite all he had been through Faramir had turned out all right. Hurt, yes, damaged, yes, but still able to love. Yet he had also never had the love of Denethor, that extra pressure, that Boromir had had. He had not listened to his father’s teachings all the time but had often been ignored and pushed aside. If he could not even get his brothers’ support then all was lost; as Denethor’s sons he needed them but he needed them more as the brothers he had come to love so dearly.

“Yet where nothing is ventured nothing is gained. Better to know for certain this love cannot be than long forever,” Faramir mumbled, a determined look in his eyes. He would speak with Eowyn later today, after he had rested. He had to know.

“Yet should you risk losing a friendship, a brotherhood, that has meant so much? Green eyes now filled with hate and flame?” Aragorn mumbled softly, aware that his greatest concern was that Boromir would share his father’s distaste for anything related to the Elfish culture. He wished Boromir to remain a part of his life; forever but he wished the same for Arwen. He could only pray those two wishes were compatiable.

“Yet such beauty…how could you stay close to her and not wish to touch her, kiss her? Something that feels so natural,” Faramir went on thoughtfully, having not really heard Aragorn’s words.

“Those haunting eyes, that soft and elegant body…kissing red lips…those pointed ears,” Aragorn mumbled, feeling heat rise in him and settle in his stomach before moving lower, caught up in his daydreaming.

“What?” Faramir asked surprised, not sure if he had heard right but Aragorn’s words had shaken him out of his own daydreaming. “We…we **are** still talking about Eowyn, right?” he asked hesitantly, unsure of what to think but not wishing to assume anything.

Aragorn was torn from his daydream and fought down a blush. “Oh. Yes, certainly.”

Suddenly his thoughts caught up with him and he analysed what he had been thinking, dreaming. He did love Arwen. He loved her, wanted her, wished to share the rest of his lifetime with her. The realization, the truth and depth of it, came to him like an epiphany. Faramir was right. No matter the cost he had to admit to how he was feeling and stick by it because now that he knew, realised how he felt, he would not be able to live without Arwen, without her as his Queen, his bride. He knew he’ll face resistance but then so be it. He would not give up and give into ignorance and intolerance. A calm settled over him in that moment. Though it was a terrifying thought having to approach a whole nation and bare his soul, knowing they could all turn against him, then he had to do it and just having clarity, knowing what it was he was feeling, made him feel more at ease with himself.

“You were talking of an Elf…” Faramir began thoughtfully and fought to recall Aragorn’s words. He only knew two Elves Aragorn were really close to, Legolas and Arwen, and his description had been very female in nature so it had to be Arwen. He felt great relief to be reassured that Aragorn was not interested in Eowyn but then he recalled Aragorn had spoken of green eyes…twice. He looked surprised at Aragorn, “You’re afraid my brother would not approve of a relationship between the princess of Rivendell and yourself!”

Aragorn considered lying but did not wish to do so towards Faramir. “I am sorry if this offends you but yes…I do love your brother for he is a brother to me as well but his father is strong in him.”

  
“More so than you or me?” Faramir asked, trying to understand how complex Aragorn’s situation could become.

“I hope not but I fear it could be so,” Aragorn nodded grimly.

“Give him a chance. You may think he has changed in the years you were away but not all of it was for the worse. His loyality and faith are still first and foremost for me...us. His brothers,” Faramir said with pride and certainty.

“I hope so,” Aragorn nodded seriously.

They sat in a somewhat tense silence until Faramir asked, “Does he know?”

  
Aragorn shook his head. “No.”

  
“You mean a lot to my brother yet I cannot say with certainty if he will accept your Kingship or your love. He was never one to bare his soul, even to me,” Faramir paused but then added, “To be honest I do not think he has ever considered it.”

Aragorn nodded grimly, relieved that so far Faramir was not upset with him. “I know. I was the only human in Rivendell. Unlike Gondor then in Rivendell I found it was normal between Elves to have warrior bonds, male lovers, but interracial relationships are even there not common.”

Faramir nodded grimly and then smiled, “After my brother I love you best of all. No matter who you love, as long as you are happy you will always have my approval…if it matters to you.”

  
“It matters a great deal,” Aragorn said, moved by Faramir’s easy acceptance though knowing Faramir he had expected nothing less. He laid his hand over Faramir’s in silent thanks. “Though I am not of your blood you have my permission to wed Eowyn if you seek it and do not worry; I am sure she would say yes,” Aragorn said warmly, returning one favour with one of his own.

“Thank you,” Faramir said heartfelt, happy to hear Aragorn say this.

“I had feared I had to fight all of Gondor on the matter of my heart. Your easy approval brings me great joy yet I have to know…is it because of your care for me or do you truly feel this love is as pure as I believe it to be?”

Faramir smiled. “You once called me your brother of the spirit…Though I am proud to be Gondorian then my spirit is more Elfish than anything else. I love their music, poetry, books and…I admire their way of life. I have read about Elves since I was a young boy and though in none of the books I have read in Gondor do they spoke openly of interracial relationship or a warrior’s bond I am no fool; it was obvious that many of those friends or warriors in the tales had a deeper dimension, a deeper level of love which, sadly, I as a reader was denied knowledge of.”

“Lord Elrond has the unedited versions,” Aragorn said softly, once more impressed by Faramir’s insight.

“I would be honoured to read them.”

“Boromir never…” Aragorn asked hopefully, wishing to have both his brothers support.

“I am sorry but no. He barely had time for our regular studies between his warrior training. He had no time for reading for pleasure.”

Aragorn nodded, somewhat disappointed though he had figured it to be a long shot that Boromir would have known and accepted the thought of interracial relationships when it was never done in Gondor. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, both feeling relieved to have shared their secrets.

“I will leave you to get some rest now,” Aragorn finally said and rose.

“Aragorn,” Faramir said when he was by the door, taking the dirty bandage with him in the water basin he had used.

“Yes?” he asked, turning back to look at him.  
  


“Follow your heart and have faith in Boromir’s. He may yet surprise you.”

Aragorn smiled warmly. “Thank you,” he said before he left, closing the door silently behind him.

When Faramir lay his head back on the pillow he fell into a peaceful sleep at once and a smile was on his lips as he dreamed of Eowyn.

* * *

“This seems to be a favourite viewpoint of yours,” Faramir said softly, smiling, as he came up behind Eowyn who was standing on the top of the stairs leading to the palace like she had the first time he had seen her. He had rested and dressed lightly in pants, boots and a loose white shirt. His injured arm was in a sling and his ribs were bandaged but he felt little pain thanks to Aragorn’s herbs. Before coming to find Eowyn he had had a joyful reunion with the two Hobbits and had briefly seen to Elrond’s son to assure himself the Elf was going to be all right.

“Oh.” She briefly turned to look at him before she turned back to look out over the city and the hills beyond. “Yes. It is,” she agreed with a smile of her own. She was dressed in a long white dress with wide sleeves, much like the one she had worn the first day he had seen her, standing in this exact spot, the banners of Rohan proudly flanking her on both sides.

Faramir moved up to stand beside her. For a long while they simply stood side by side until he turned around to face her and to her surprise he took her hand in his uninjured one and looked into her eyes. “You know what I am to say,” he said softly, warmly.

She blushed and tried weakly to pull her hand back but he held on to it so she gave up and let her hand rest in his. “This is not the time. The War…”

He shook his head at her, determined not to back down now. “You own my heart, you rule my fate. Is it that you do not love me…or will you not?” he asked softly.

She didn’t know what to say and this time when she put more force into it he allowed her to pull away.

“Things are complicated enough,” she said softly.

“Love should not be complicated.”

She was silent for a long while, facing away from him, looking out over the distance. Then she turned towards him and tears were in her eyes. “What if I lost you? I have lost so much already. I do not think I could bear losing you.”

Faramir felt a lump in his throat. He stepped closer to her and gently wiped her tears away with his uninjured hand. He put a gentle hand to her right cheek. “I cannot promise never to die but I can promise you will never lose me. If you let me love you a part of me shall always be with you.”

She smiled up at him through the tears shining in her eyes. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he said warmly but strongly.

“Then kiss me,” she whispered as his lips drew nearer and he did so. She threw her arms around him and drew him even closer, deepening the kiss while still careful not to press too close out of respect for his injuries. It was a kiss filled with promise and release, finally finding what they were looking for.

A distant noise, growing closer, made the new lovers look up and out towards the hills. Dust seemed to be flying from the earth and it was clear something large was approaching; such noise and display could only signal the arrival of an army.

Faramir instinctively tightened his arms around Eowyn and she supported her back against his chest, leaning only superficially against him so not to bruise his ribs further as his uninjured arm closed around her waist.

“Orcs?” she asked worried.

Faramir followed the approaching army for some time with his eyes before he shook his head, relief in his voice. “No. They ride too fast, too light.”

“What else? You do not think Gondor has sent an army, do you?” She asked hopefully.

“No. They are approaching from the wrong direction and Gondor will be caught up in a battle for survival against Mordor,” Faramir said, a hint of worry for his people and his brother in his voice.

The army came still closer with amazing speed and now he could see who it was. “It is the Elves. I see banners for Rivendell, the Golden Wood and Mirkwood!” Faramir said in joy and happiness.

“Wonderful!” Eowyn said happily and span around in his one-handed embrace to give him a large embrace and soon their lips met again.

This time when they separated several of the Elves in command had reached the palace and was on the way up the stairs towards them. Faramir recognized Lord Elrond, Haldir, a man so familiar in appearance to Legolas it had to be one of his brothers. To his surprise Lord Elrond was escorting his daughter up the stairs with them and he saw her horse, a lady saddle on it, being taken to the stables by one of the servants together with her father’s and a third horse, without saddle, clearly having not been ridden, and Faramir recognized the horse as the one Boromir had given Aragorn.

Faramir and Eowyn separated but Faramir kept a hand around her waist when she with a warm smile indicated it was all right with her that he did so.

“Lord Elrond,” Faramir greeted when the Elf reached him and the two men shook hands.

“Lady Arwen,” he said, once again amazed by the Elven lady’s beauty despite having been shortly introduced to her in Rivendell. He briefly separated from Eowyn to kiss the beautiful Elven princess’ hand but then laid it back around her waist and gave her a gentle push towards the Elves she was eying with open mouthed fascination and awe, having only heard of Elves in fairytales but had never seen them. “May I present Princess Eowyn of Rohan?”

“A pleasure,” Arwen and Elrond said after each other as Arwen gave a small curtsy for her and Elrond gave a nod of his head in respect, keeping to human social rules, as Eowyn curtsied.

“Faramir. It is good to see you well. I was beginning to fear if mayhap I had taken too long. It has been several weeks since I received your letter,” Elrond said to him with concern after the introduction was complete.

“You arrive just in time. Thank you, my lord,” Faramir said heartfelt. “And you need not worry; both your son and adopted son are well. Aragorn is in the throne room with King Theoden and your son is in one of the chambers,” Faramir added, having easily read the concern in the Elf’s eyes and easily guessed its cause.

“Is he well?” Elrond asked worried.

“He had become a prisoner of Saruman but when Isengard was destroyed he was freed. I spoke with him a few hours ago. He will make a full recovery,” Faramir calmed him and Elrond breathed in relief.

“And what of Aragorn?” Arwen asked anxiously, looking around as if Faramir had hidden the would be King on the top of the stairs with him.

Before Faramir could reply Legolas and Aragorn existed the palace and came towards them.

“Arwen!” Aragorn said in surprise, a wide smile spreading over his lips.

“Aragorn!” Arwen yelled and forgetting everything about protocol she left her father’s side and ran into Aragorn’s open arms who had ran as well to meet her halfway. He lifted her up and span her around, her long beautiful dress forming a circle like a rose petal around them, until he slowly stopped to put her back on her feet as their lips met in a warm and loving kiss.

“Youth,” Elrond said good-natured and said a warm Elfish greeting to Legolas who patiently waited for Aragorn to seperate from Arwen. When he finally did he caught Elrond’s eye and the older Elf smiled at Aragorn.

“Father,” Aragorn said warmly but formally, stopping before him, Arwen by his side. He stood close enough to Elrond to touch him if he reached out which he didn’t, knowing Elven customs well enough to know Elves rarely touched in public or otherwise showed strong emotions when not in private.

“Son, I trust you are well?”

“I am.”

“Good…for I bring you an army,” he said with a reserved smile and indicated the troops that had begun to make camp just outside the city and the many officers that had entered it, their higher status guarantying them better quarters.

“Thank you,” Aragorn said heartfelt before he added, “We will move out as soon as they have rested.”

Elrond nodded in agreement and then smiled, humour sparkling in his eyes. “We also found someone as we crossed into Rohan who I believe you might have been searching for.”

Elrond sidestepped just at the right moment, his Elven ears having picked up on the approaching footsteps, when Eomer appeared on top of the stairs, without his helmet but still dressed in his battle clothes, dirty and exhausted from his travel yet as soon as he spotted Eowyn before him all traces of exhaustion seemed to leave him and he smiled widely.

“Brother!” Eowyn yelled happily and flew into his arms.

He smiled and hugged her close. “Little sister,” he said fondly when after a few seconds they resultantly drew apart and Eomer scanned her to assure himself she was unharmed and sighed relieved when he found she was.

“Eomer,” Faramir said as he came to him, having waited till the siblings had had their reunion and the two men shook hands, warrior style.

  
”I see you have taken good care of my sister. Thank you,” Eomer said heartfelt.

“I will not take credit where none is due. She took care of me,” Faramir said honestly with a fond look at Eowyn.

Eomer noticed the warm look and also how Eowyn smiled warmly back. “Is there something I should know?” he asked with some amusement.

Faramir fought down his nervousness and nodded. “Yes, I would like your permission to court your sister,” he said formally, seriously, praying Eomer would give his approval for he could never make himself ask Eowyn to choose between her brother and himself.

“My sister have hardly asked or needed my permission in the past but I will happily give it,” he said fondly.

  
”Thank you,” Faramir said warmly, relieved.

“Thank you, dear brother,” Eowyn said lovingly and hugged him again.

“Just…take care of each other,” he said, a look between sadness of losing a sister and happiness at seeing her joy on his face as Eowyn drew back from him.

“We will,” Faramir promised, his hand once more going around her waist.

“Let us go to the large dinner hall and prepare a proper welcome feast for our guests,” Theoden said from the entrance to the palace, Gandalf standing, smiling, beside him.

Soon the festivities had begun, some with the knowledge they in a day or two would be sent out on dangerous missions to rid Rohan of the last of Saruman’s forces and therefore intent on enjoying what could be their last feast.

* * *

“Something troubles you, my son,” Elrond said insightfully as he seated himself next to Aragorn who had seated himself in a quiet corner of the dinner hall, as far away from the noisy feast as possible. The party had begun and most were very drunk. Exceptions were Faramir and Eowyn who had disappeared to sit out in the garden, quietly talking and holding hands, Arwen had retired for the evening, Eomer and Theoden who sat at a table debating the war and all the Elves who were all still very sober, for some of them only because mortal alcohol had very little effect on Elven physiology.

Aragorn looked up and the frown on his face dissolved into a smile as he saw who it was who had disrupted his thoughts. “Just thinking.”

Elrond nodded. Now that he had seen for himself his son would be all right and was healing well he found he had the time and energy to go more into this matter with his adopted son. “On a matter close to heart?” Elrond guessed.

Aragorn nodded and then decided he needed some guidance. “What is your opinion of interracial relationships?” he asked directly.

Elrond hid his surprise well; though he knew of Aragorn’s love for his daughter he had not thought he would speak of his concerns to him so openly. “I have had a warrior’s bond myself once, thousand of years ago and as you know one of my sons also have one,” he paused. “Yet interracial relations are rare. I am one of few who have had a human wife. My support of your relationship with my daughter is coloured by this. Though it’s rare then my people will give you no problems; I will see to this.” He paused again. “Though I am not sure I understand what you mean by your question.”

“You know humans do not marry outside, rarely even across borders to other human kingdoms.”

Elrond nodded grimly, frowning. “I know they have come to feel this way yet not all humans feel thus and in the past none of them did. It was first when they started creating cities, kingdoms, churches…they built up so many rules they ended up becoming prisoners of the rules that they had made to be free; to better and further themselves,” Elrond mused out loud.

“Do you think a Gondorian today would agree to an Elven Queen?” Aragorn asked softly, looking down at the wooden table before looking back up at Elrond.

“Depends on the man; mayhap their desire to see their King return would overshadow any concerns.” Elrond paused, not sure if he should pry yet from Aragorn’s perplexed look he gathered he needed some advice right about now. “What haunts your dreams, my son?” he asked sympathetically. “You must know that though you are human you are now also Elfish and we think differently. We have lived for thousands of years; we are immortal. We know the pain of loneliness and thus we have long since seen the logic and beauty in finding love where love is freely given,” he added in warning.

“Politics aside then what worries me is that a man I love I have told you about as a friend…a brother to my heart, may not understand and if he cannot then how am I to expect others will?” Aragorn said softly and took a swallow of his mug of beer.

“Faramir?” Elrond asked surprised. He had seemed not just facinated but intrigued by anything Elfish.

“No…No!” Aragorn shook his head, his shock and surprise at the suggestion fading into a smile. “No, I could never imagine him protesting something like this. When first I saw him he was but a babe but from the start he had a good heart.”

“Then…It is the Lord Boromir you speak of,” Elrond realized and many pieces fell into place, among others Aragorn’s great love for the horse Boromir had given him and which Elrond had brought with him here for him to use in the coming battle.

“Yes,” Aragorn said softly, avoiding meeting his eyes by looking into his beer mug before he took another swallow.

“If you are seeking my blessing for my daughter’s hand then you have it the day you are crown King,” Elrond said seriously, “if you are seeking my council I would ask for caution. He is the oldest son of Denethor and a true son of Gondor. He is proud and strong. You would ask he kneel to you as a King…and accept a Queen from another race in the same day.”

“I ask not my brother to kneel before me. We would be equal,” Aragorn protested.

“The world would not see you as such. You would be King, him second, the last Steward of Gondor and your Queen would be an Elf who ruled above all with you. Were you Elfkind…were the Kingdom you were to rule Elfkind…this would not matter much, even if your brothers were human for it has happened before. Many years after the death of your human bride you would take an Elven lover and have your children from either marriage inherit the Kingdom,” Elrond said softly and Aragorn got the feeling he was speaking from experience…maybe even to some degree personal experience.

“Yet as things are?” Aragorn asked softly, knowing he had to know even though he knew he would not like the answer.

Elrond sighed, wishing his adopted son’s love did not have to walk such a pained path as this yet he could not force thousands of years of wisdom upon the mortal race. They would have to learn by doing; painful as this was to watch. “Best case they accept you for you are King. Worst case…The nobles would turn against you for they want their human daughters on the throne. The priests could do likewise. The public you might be able to keep for they wish peace and they wish a King above anything else. The army your skills will conquer though I doubt it will be an issue; from what I have heard then if you have Lord Boromir’s support you should have their love easily enough. Be weary of the priests and the nobles though for if you take my daughter as your lover you take the priests’ power and make sure no nobleman’s daughter will ever catch the King’s eye.”

“Surely they had not expected me to wed one of their daughters,” Aragorn said with a shake of his head. “Had I not chosen Arwen I would have wed another Elven lady, I know this with certainty. As you said, father, I too am Elfish”

“Yet they do not feel or see this,” Elrond warned. “What of offspring? Denethor’s offspring?”

Aragorn was silent for a while and then admitted, “Faramir is the youngest so any children of his should not be a threat. Boromir, however....even if he supports my love and my Kingship then supporters of Denethor could try and put a son of his on the throne.” His voice faded away, sure Elrond would know what he meant.

“The Kingdom could later be torn apart,” Elrond finished for him. “A daughter would be acceptable.” Elrond suggested, aware that humans, probably due to their very short lifespan, felt a great need for offsprings. He added, his voice soft, wishing to spare Aragorn some of the danger and pain he knew his described future could bring him, “you might consider though that he does not foster children. It would make this easier for you both.”

Aragorn gave him a sharp look. “This is my life; our lives. I may be a King and as such I will and want to produce the heirs required of me but I shall not hide what will be the best thing in my life and I would never demand of a brother that he should be denied happiness!” he said strongly.

“I pray then your brothers and my daughter will be as determinded to change a nation and that they will be willing to fight for your love and brotherhood with equal passion and courage for you may need it.”

Aragorn nodded grimly. “So do I.”

They sat in silence for a while before Elrond said softly, “You will always be welcome in Rivendell, both of you, if ever you need to stay in a beautiful place where you can just be you…where you will never have to fight just to keep what your heart tells you is yours.”

“Thank you,” Aragorn said heartfelt.

They sat in silence for a while and Aragorn’s thoughts returned to Arwen. So many doubts…so many obstacles…was it even worth it? Then he forced himself to forget all the trials and just think of Arwen…of how much she meant to him, how much he longed to hold her in his arms and he knew…if Arwen wanted him no trials would be too hard, no sacrifice too much, to be with her.

For the rest of the evening Aragorn allowed his mind and heart to wander and forget all about the pains this love could bring, ignore all the logic…he let his soul and heart dream and a wide smile stayed on his lips till daybreak, a loving gleam in his eyes and everyone who looked at him in passing couldn’t help but smile as well.


	27. The Battle For Minas Tirith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Faramir finally see Boromir again during the battle for Minas Tirith.

## The Battle For Minas Tirith

It took them several weeks to clean out the Orcs in Rohan despite the help from the Elves and by then Faramir’s wounds had completely healed. Though casualties were high Faramir knew it was nowhere near as bad as it could have been.

When the threat to Rohan was thinning Aragorn and Faramir were on edge to go to Gondor, both concerned for Boromir and the nation’s fate. It took little persuasion to get King Theoden to go with them with the Rohan army, thanks to Eowyn and Eomer’s strong convictions that both would leave for Gondor regardless of the whereabouts of Rohan’s army. Though Eomer was not happy to see Eowyn ride with them she was firm and thus the debate on why she should not fight with them was postponed till they reached Gondor. Elrond had readily agreed to move with the army though Arwen had been left in Edoras, a decision she had fully supported which had eased Aragorn’s heart. Together with her were a patrol of Rohan and Elven guards to make sure the people left behind tending to the sick and the provisions going from Edoras to the army, were safe.

Moving a large army from Rohan towards Minas Tirith took several weeks, slowed down by their sheer force of numbers and the Orcs they ran into underway. Their greatest concern had been that Gondor had been ordered by Denethor to view Rohan as a threat. The last thing they needed was killing the people they wished to save.

As they had been about to cross into Gondor, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Faramir, Eomer, Eowyn, Pippin, Merry, Theoden, Haldir and Elrond in the lead, they had been met by a small band of rangers. Faramir had greeted them warmly and they had given Faramir a message sealed to him. The rangers told them Boromir had pulled the group of rangers aside and had send them to the border, saying he knew of their loyalty to Faramir and therefore he trusted only them to bring his brother the message he had written. He had furthermore said that they should not return to Minas Tirith unless on Aragorn’s order, making Aragorn and Faramir share a look of worry.

Boromir’s message had been simple in its grimness:

_Dearest brother,_

_Osgiliath has been overrun. Mordor plans to attack Minas Tirith. I will attempt a counter attack yet we are horribly outnumbered. Father wishes me to retake Osgiliath…if he makes this an order I must go. I shall leave your second in command of the rangers as commander of the defence of Minas Tirith; he is a good man, you chose well._

_Bring me an army of 100.000 men or do not come to Minas Tirith. If the city falls Mordor will have the run of the land. Do not attempt to retrieve me; I will already be dead. Take Aragorn’s advice on these matters. Withdraw to Rohan; mayhap on the higher grounds you can make a last stand._

_If I do not see you again then remember my spirit shall always watch over you._

_If you read this, brother, then tell Aragorn…he did well._

_Your brother,_

_Boromir_

Aragorn had broken a smile at Boromir’s greeting to him but it had been a sad kind of smile.

They had to hurry. Time was of the essence. Faramir and Aragorn had a shared fear and a shared knowledge; Denethor had always expected nothing less than perfection from his oldest son. Boromir’s defeat at Osgiliath would have thrown the steward further into darkness and he would be more than capable of giving an order which, logically, was a suicide mission but which Denethor probably did not see as such, sure that Boromir would be able to get it done.

The news of Gondor’s severe difficulties made Elrond suggest to Aragorn that he brought the Oathbreakers with him to Minas Tirith. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli left to find them and bring them to the city of Kings while the rest of the army marched onward towards Minas Tirith, the small group of rangers now once again under Faramir’s command and he ordered them to scout ahead.

They arrived to see Minas Tirith under siege by a large Orc army just as the sun was setting, the battle well under way. They had to act fast, without delay. They might be victorious without Aragorn and his Oarthbreakers but only with severe losses, a death toll of at least 90% of the men. Still, the armies were made ready for an attack.

They decided to split up the army to attack the Orcs from all sides. Theoden attacked from the east with the main Rohan force, Eomer from the south with a smaller band of the Rohirrum soldiers and Elrond with his Elves from the north side. Faramir brought his rangers with him to the west side and chose to try and sneak into the city with this small band of men, wishing to get in touch with his brother and help the internal defences. His goal was to share his knowledge of the Rohan and Elven armies’ strategy and thereby allow Gondor could aid them. After being turned down by everyone else Eowyn, Pippin and Merry came to Faramir and asked to help him. While worried for their safety Faramir had readily agreed to have the Hobbits in his ranks, having great respect for their courage. He was more hesitant with Eowyn, not wishing to see her wounded. Seeing her hurt look at his hesitation Faramir realized his denial would hurt more and most likely not stop her anyway so he let her come along. He had to smile at her joy when he gave her his permission; she literally jumped into his arms and kissed him passionately.

When Elrond, Eomer and Theoden attacked the Orc army, Faramir sneaked closer to the city with his rangers, the Hobbits and Eowyn, fighting to stop himself from looking worriedly at her constantly yet it was the hardest thing he ever had to do; leading her towards danger. He had just found the one who made his life complete; he could not lose her now.

“Lord Faramir, there is a hole in the wall surrounding Minas Tirith to the east, a few feet up yet reachable. Not many Orcs are there; most have been drawn back to fight the Elven and Rohirrum soldiers,” one of Faramir’s rangers whispered to him when he silently moved to Faramir’s side. None of them were on horseback and all wore the green capes of the rangers to help hide them in the darkness and among the trees and vegetation that grew close to the eastern side of the city.

“We move closer, silently. Send six men ahead, use knives or arrows to kill any Orcs before we reach them,” Faramir ordered quietly and the ranger nodded and moved away to carry out his order. Though he did not turn he knew Eowyn was looking at him, her gaze warm and proud, making him fight the urge to smile despite the danger they were in.

At the signal from one of the rangers ahead that all was safe, Faramir waved behind him and began to move out, the others following him. This side of the city did not bear the full attack and was very close to where the city grew into the mountainside so they were moving in what felt like a surreal bobble; there were almost no noise or movement from the intense battle for the city anywhere around them.

Faramir was just starting to think they would reach the wall unnoticed when an Orc nearby cried out and suddenly twenty or so Orcs were looking their way. For a fraction of a second everyone froze but then everything exploded at once.

“Get to the wall!” Faramir yelled, beginning to fire arrows at the Orcs while running towards the wall himself. Merry and Pippin, having a sword but no bow like Faramir and the rangers had, were picked up by some of the rangers as they ran towards the wall. Eowyn also had a sword but no bow and he looked behind towards her just in time to see an Orc aim for her.

“No!” he yelled, fear greater than anything he had ever felt surrounding his heart and without thinking he jumped into the line of fire. The arrow caught him in the shoulder and the force of it knocked him to the ground. At once his rangers surrounded him, creating a protective sphere, firing arrows at the Orcs, killing several. Eowyn ran to Faramir as soon as she had shaken the shock of what had happened off her. Faramir had managed to get back on his feet when she reached him and she knelt beside him, worry and love shining in her eyes.

“Tear it out,” Faramir gasped, nodding towards the arrow, fighting to get the pain under control as sweat broke out on his forehead. Eowyn did so, wincing in sympathy as Faramir yelled out in pain.

“We must hurry,” Eowyn said worried, letting the arrow drop to the ground before she tore a piece of her plain brown dress and begun to bind it around his wound. When his wound was bandaged she put an arm around his waist and guided his nearest arm up to lie over her shoulder so she could maintain a strong grip on him.

“I can walk,” Faramir protested when they were both back on their feet and tore loose from her.

“Faramir!” Eowyn protested concerned as they resumed their run towards the wall.

“I need to be able to fire,” he replied as he did just that, his arrow cutting down an Orc, though he winced in pain at the forced movement to his injured shoulder.

Faramir was so focused on the arrows from the Orcs he did not see the ones coming from inside the city before Eowyn cried out in pain, having taken an arrow to her left thigh. A ranger came to her and helped her back to her feet, supporting her weight.

“Archers of Minas Tirith, this is Faramir of Gondor. Cease your attack and let us in!” Faramir yelled as they neared the wall, knowing the darkness would have made it hard for the archers up on the wall to see anything except moving dark figures.

The arrows from the city stopped at once and a light appeared at the hole in the wall they had spotted. With agonizing slowness they managed to reach it and Faramir saw several rangers stand outside the hole, ready to help them through and lay down covering fire.

“Get the princess to the House of Healing,” Faramir demanded of the ranger supporting her as they stood outside the hole, ready to enter the city.

“Faramir,” she asked weakly, pained, concern in her voice as she laid a hand on his arm.

“Go, my love. I will follow you as soon as I can,” Faramir vowed, his voice and eyes soft and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze before he kissed her lips softly. He then gently removed her hand from him. His eyes found the ranger supporting her. “Go and guard her with your life.”

“I will, my lord,” the ranger vowed and was gone. Eowyn cast one last worried look at him over her shoulder but he gave her a reassuring smile before he positioned himself beside the hole and helped his rangers through it. When the last was to go through he was hit in the back and fell into Faramir’s arms, gasping in pain.

“This is the last one,” Faramir said to the rangers outside the hole to indicate anything else that moved outside the hole could and should be cut down. He dragged his wounded man inside the hole and laid him as gentle as possible on the ground, face down. “Commence firing!” he yelled towards the sky, up towards where the archers stood.

At once arrows began to rain down on the small band of approaching Orcs as the rangers who had laid down covering fire went through the hole as well and begun to shot arrows through it. More men approached Faramir from deeper within the city as the ranger who had held the light extinguished it to make it harder for the Orcs to find targets.

“Take this man to the House of Healing,” Faramir ordered to the approaching soldiers, nodding towards his wounded man. Two men nodded and began to do as bid. “Five of you, find something to cover this hole with and thereafter return to your stations,” Faramir said before he cast a look at Merry and Pippin who had been left standing just inside the hole in the wall, in the middle of the chaos. “Get the Hobbits to the city wall and give them a bow and arrows,” he ordered and both Hobbits smiled happily at him, glad that they were not being send away.

“We will not let you down,” they promised as a soldier led them away and Faramir smiled at them.

“I know.”

When they were out of sight he turned back to an officer who had appeared on the scene and voiced his greatest concern. “From where is this battle organized? Where is my brother?”

“Boromir was deadly wounded as he, on the Lord Steward’s order, lead a doomed attack to reclaim Osgiliath,” the officer replied, his face grim.

“Where is he now?” Faramir asked worried, feeling ice take a hold of his heart. He had not felt him die; he could not be dead.

“I was on duty at the main gate when his horse carried him faithfully back from the deadly battle. He was badly wounded and I was about to carry him to the House of Healing when your father demanded I leave him in his chamber.”

“He needed a healer at once!” Faramir yelled outraged.  
  


“So do you, my lord,” the officer said with concern in his eyes as he eyed the badly bleeding wound in Faramir’s shoulder.

  
“It will wait,” Faramir waved it off with his uninjured arm and looked impatiently towards the palace, anxious to find his brother. “Is the situation under control?”

“The attack has slowed down,” the officer admitted with some puzzlement.

“Yes, Rohan and the Elves have arrived to aid us,” Faramir begun.

“Thank Valar!” the officer said relieved, having assumed as most of them had that all had been lost.

“They attack the Orcs from behind from north, south and east. The Elven warriors are dressed in gold, the markings of the Rohan soldiers all should know. Aid them by intensifying the attacks on the south side; it will leave them open for the greater force we have coming in from the north and east,” Faramir ordered.

“As you wish.”

Faramir nodded at this, “Tell the other officers what you know and let the people know there is hope; we can win!” Faramir yelled at him before he ran off, aiming for the palace.

Reaching the palace proved not to be easy as there was fighting in the streets and the Orcs were now also attacking from the air atop their winged allies. When he had almost reached the palace he felt a sudden sharp pain in his mind, like a thousand souls were in terror and then a sharp flash of lighting. Then…nothing. Faramir would later figure out he had felt the death of the Orcs by the Oathbreakers Aragorn had brought but for now he had no time to consider what it was as he continued through the city as fast as he could, worry for his brother driving him on. When he reached the White Tree that stood outside the palace he drew a pained breath of relief and leaned heavily on his sword for a few seconds before he burst into the front hall of the palace.

“Where is my brother?” Faramir demanded to know of the first frightened servant he spotted in the hall.

  
“Your father took him to the burial sight to burn him,” the servant said, his eyes filled with terror at the thought.

“He is truly gone then,” Faramir whispered pained and at the thought he felt all his energy and will to go on start to fade away. Yet why had he not seen it, felt it? Boromir felt alive to him. He did. He could not be imagining it; the feel of Boromir’s essence seemed so real to him.

  
”He…he lived still when your father asked me to quickly bandage his wounds and dress him in proper funeral clothes,” the servant admitted in terror at the thought of what was to happen to the steward’s oldest son.

“What?!” Faramir asked enraged, his energy returning to him along with fear, anger and worry. He pointed his sword at the servant’s throat who got a terrified look on his face at this movement. “And you let him do this?” Faramir asked, his eyes and voice dark and deadly.

“He is the steward, my lord. He would not listen to me,“ the servant explained, frightened. “Please, do not kill me,” he begged.

“You should have helped him regardless yet luckily for you I have no time to teach you a lesson…I shall leave that to my brother,” Faramir said darkly before he hurried out through the large wooden doors once more and begun to run towards the funeral hall.

“Faramir!” Aragorn’s voice stopped him as the older man rode up beside him on the horse Boromir had given him all those years ago. His face was worried and worn, his blade blooded as he put it back in its scabbard. He had entered the city as soon as the Oarthbreakers had destroyed all the Orcs near, in and around Minas Tirith. An officer inside the city walls had told him where Faramir had gone and he had gone after him, thinking Faramir might know where Boromir was. It troubled him deeply that he had not seen him during the battle; he knew Boromir would have been on the front end, leading the battle, if he had been unhurt. As he had rode towards the palace Aragorn had refused to even consider the very real possibility that Boromir might have perished.

“Aragorn!” Faramir breathed in relief as Aragorn rode alongside him and reached out his unhurt arm to him. “To the funeral house. Father has Boromir there; he is still alive!” Faramir said, adding the last when he saw the shocked and shattering look in Aragorn’s eyes and face at his first few words. Faramir got a grip on Aragorn’s wrist with his good arm and Aragorn stood still long enough for Faramir to, with Aragorn’s help, swing up behind the older man on the horse.

“The Witchking has killed Theoden and tried to kill Eowyn when she was on the way to the house of Healing. He managed to kill your ranger as he was protecting her…” Aragorn begun to explain while they rode faster than the wind towards the funeral hall.

“Is she well?” Faramir asked worried as he leaned against Aragorn, holding his good arm around his waist.

“Yes. She killed the Witchking.”

Faramir smiled proudly despite his worry. “That’s my woman!”

Aragorn gave a small smile at his words though his whole focus was on Boromir. Before he could reply they had reached the large wooden door to the funeral hall and Aragorn made the horse rear and kick the door in. They rode as fast as they could through the long corridor of the hall and stopped before a large stake at the end of the corridor, both frowning in concern when they saw Boromir laying unmoving on top of it, Denethor standing beside him on the funeral pyre, pouring oil over his hair and body.

“Boromir!” Faramir yelled and jumped from the horse, Aragorn giving him a hand down, holding onto his uninjured arm.

“Stay away from him. It is you who have corrupted him, made him weak! First he fails to bring me the Ring; lets the Hobbits go to Mordor, and then he fails to secure Osgiliath. Nay, my true son died long ago!” Denethor yelled furiously, holding a torch in his hands and Faramir froze inches from Boromir, close enough to see his brother’s chest rise and fall in ragged breaths.

“He lives still!” Faramir said with relief, tears of joy forming in his eyes as Aragorn and him shared a look of relief over this as well as pride at the knowledge that Boromir had helped Sam and Frodo. The knowledge that Sam and Frodo had come this far at least was a great comfort.

At the news that Boromir was alive Aragorn breathed in relief and he felt balance and calm return to him. His eyes came to rest on Denethor but his words were to Faramir, “Help him down.”

“Touch him and I burn us both! He lived valiantly; you shall not make him a coward in death!” Denethor screamed, his eyes filled with madness.

“Father, please. I too am your son and I swear to you…Boromir is alive!” Faramir plead, his voice urgent and filled with emotions.

“My son is dead. I wish now…” Denethor paused, his voice fading away but Faramir knew what he would have said.

  
”You think Boromir dead and would rather I had perished in his stead,” Faramir supplied for him, his face a mask of hurt.

“Denethor,” Aragorn drew the Steward’s attention back to him, his voice and eyes strong and unyielding. “You are not yourself and it is on account of this I give you this chance. Step down and away from Boromir or I will force you to do so.”

“You wish only to steal my throne, the throne that rightfully belonged to Boromir!” Denethor yelled and raised the torch.

“Father! No!” Faramir yelled and reached for him but he knew he would never make it so instead he reached for Boromir’s unconscious body in a futile attempt to shield him.

“No…the throne that is and have always been mine to rule as King!” Aragorn said strongly, knowing it was true, having no more doubts, what had been left of them fading away in this moment. Just then Denethor let the torch drop and the fire ignited into hungry flames at once.

With skill learned from the Elves Aragorn reached for his knife in his right boot and threw it at Denethor, hitting him in his right shoulder. The power of the blow made the Steward fall off the stake, fire eating at his clothes yet he did not seem to care.

Faramir had managed to drag and roll Boromir to the floor and quickly killed the flames eating at his clothes before he gathered his brother in his embrace, drawing him close to his chest while sitting on the floor. Boromir moaned and turned his head from side to side and Faramir stroked his damp hair with his hand on his unharmed side, feeling Boromir’s brow was hot with fever.

“Hush, brother. Do not fear. All is well now. You are safe,” Faramir whispered, his voice filled with love and relief, tears falling down his cheeks.

“Boromir? Boromir lives?!” Denethor asked shakily, reaching a hand towards his sons. An agony that had nothing to do with the flames now coming closer to his body, eating through his clothes, entered Denethor’s eyes and for the first time in a very long time his eyes seemed clear. “By the Valar. My sons! What have I done? What have I done?!” He mumbled agonized. Before anyone could react he got to his feet and ran past Aragorn who was still on his horse and ready should Denethor try anything more. Denethor ran out the building and all the way out over the edge, falling hundreds of feet to his death, a flaming body of pain, his dying scream echoing in the room and making Faramir shiver.

“Boromir,” Aragorn mumbled in relief and happiness as he jumped from his horse and knelt beside the brothers, dismissing Denethor from his thoughts for now. He laid a hand on either side of Boromir’s face and gently kissed his forehead while Boromir’s back rested against his brother’s. “I will heal you, to this I swear,” Aragorn whispered in Boromir’s ear before he drew back and met Faramir’s soft look but also saw the deep pain and exhaustion in his eyes.

“You men!” Aragorn addressed the men who had stood around in the chamber holding torches, doing nothing and still did nothing, simply observing. There was barely controlled anger in Aragorn’s voice as he spoke to them. “Be useful and assist Faramir and Boromir to the House of Healing. I have not forgotten that you were willing to stand by and let one of Gondor’s finest sons burn, knowing full well this was an order you should not have followed. Obey me now and I might spare your lives.”

The men moved quickly, terror in their eyes, knowing well that their deed deserved nothing less. With extreme care the men helped Faramir to his feet and put Boromir on the wooden stretcher they had used to carry him to the house. Faramir leant on the guard who had helped him up but held his brother’s hand on the stretcher.

As they were to pass Aragorn he softly reached out and stroked Boromir’s hair, a warm look in his eyes as he did so.

“I shall come to the House of Healing momentarily,” Aragorn told Faramir as he drew back and he nodded.

“Thank you,” he said warmly and Aragorn knew he meant for more than this.

“Stay with him till then.”  
  


“Always.”

Boromir stirred as the men were to take him away and his eyes fluttered.

“Fara?” he mumbled weakly.

“It is I, brother,” Faramir calmed him, smiling relieved at him.

“Is…is Gondor…?” he fought to stay awake, fighting the waves of pain and fought to get up.

“Hush. All is well, Gondor is safe,” Faramir calmed him and gently pushed him back down on the stretcher.

“Rest, my friend. I will come to you soon,” Aragorn said softly, concern in his eyes.

Boromir looked relieved and let himself relax. “You are well,” he said softly, his eyes closing, a smile playing over his lips. “You are both well.”

Aragorn bent down and planted the briefest and softest of kisses to Boromir’s forehead. “Seeing you well convinces me the Valar listens to my prayers,” Aragorn mumbled softly before he drew back.

“Aragorn,” Boromir mumbled with a weak smile on his lips, relieved to hear Aragorn’s voice. Assured that Aragorn was alright he lost consciousness again.

“Go,” Aragorn said softly to Faramir as he laid a calming hand on his uninjured shoulder. Faramir nodded and smiled encouraging at him before he waved at the men and they left.

Aragorn looked after them for a few seconds, feeling his heartbeat and respiration slowly returning to normal after the intense battle and the fear for Boromir’s safety he had been through in the space of mere moments.

Aragorn looked one last time at the stake as it burned to the ground and shook his head in demise.

“From the greatest love comes the greatest despair,” Aragorn mumbled softly before he jumped back on his horse. He turned the horse around and rode out into the city to find Gandalf, Eomer, Haldir, Elrond and the other leaders in the battle to give orders on how to tend to the wounded, bury the dead and to hear the estimates for the battle losses before he would be able to go to the House of Healing and sit by Boromir’s bedside and watch over him.


	28. Which Path To Travel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir and Aragorn talk about the future

## Which Path To Travel

Boromir slowly returned to consciousness. He knew there was pain there, confusion, demands and he did not wish to return. Here in the nothingness he was at peace, at ease. Yet there was a voice, a strong and dear voice that would not let him go. Every time he slipped it would urge him on, every time he considered giving up it would speak of love and peace, promising a better peace, a greater peace, out there, among the hurt and the pain than what he found inside. He did not know why but he trusted that voice. He did not recall his own name but he recalled that voice and he knew the owner of it would never harm him, would never speak false to him.

Boromir opened his eyes and saw he was in his own chamber in the palace. His eyes settled on the man sitting on his bedside, washing his face tenderly with a moist cloth, making him feel how thirsty he was.

“Aragorn,” he said softly, warmly, feeling at ease just by looking at him.

“You are awake,” Aragorn said with a smile and laid the cloth he had used on his face back in the water basin that stood on the bedside table. “Here,” he handed him a glass of water and held it to his lips, helping Boromir sit up in bed so he could drink. Boromir drank greedily, his uninjured hand helping to hold the cup until Aragorn removed it and sat it back on the nightstand.

“Thanks.” He felt much better now and he focused on trying to locate the aches in his body.

“I have bandaged your torso to hold the wound in your right shoulder. Your ribs were bruised and three were broken, the bandage also holds them. You have some minor burn wounds on your left arm and on your back. I have given them some ointment and have let them breathe though those on your back ended up half covered by the bandage for your ribs,” Aragorn told him and smiled reassuringly.

Boromir gave Aragorn a searching look. He seemed…happy. At peace. Sure there was an insecurity, a longing in his eyes but he seemed more at ease than he had ever seen the older man before. He could also see he had washed and changed, his clothes the fine robes fitting a King though he wore no crown or other jewellery.

“Is my brother unharmed?” Boromir asked with only a little concern. Aragorn would not seem this happy if Faramir were in danger.

“He was wounded in battle, in the shoulder. He is recovering nicely,” Aragorn calmed him.

“How fares the war?” Boromir asked when Aragorn’s silence lasted.

“The battle for Minas Tirith was won six days ago. In the battle Faramir, the princess Eowyn of Rohan and the Hobbits Merry and Pippin were wounded. The day after I went to the Black Gates with the remains of the army of soldiers from Rohan, the Elven states and here we had gathered. As we reached the Gates, ready to face the Orcs coming from Mordor, the One Ring was destroyed and with it Sauron and all his Orcs,” Aragorn told him, the relief he had felt then shining through in his words.

“Then Sam and Frodo succeeded,” Boromir said with a smile, letting himself sink deeper into the covers as his muscles relaxed at this news.

“Yes. They are resting in the palace, a few chambers from here,” Aragorn told him. He hesitated but then asked, knowing he had to, “What happened after Faramir left with me?”

Boromir’s face grew serious. “I saw the vision, the dream Faramir had as well. I saw my own death and the lonely existence I would have led. I saw that the One Ring would be my downfall,” though there was pain and guilt in his voice Boromir met Aragorn’s gaze steadily.

“Yet you met Sam and Frodo…they had the Ring,” Aragorn pressed softly.

Boromir nodded. “Father ordered me to claim the Ring should it come to me and sent me to Osgiliath to defend our outer borders. There I met the Hobbits and I recalled my brother’s words and my dream. I knew as soon as I saw the Little Ones that they had the Ring. I asked the one without the Ring to step forward and speak with me and the other to hide from my sight. Sam told me of their mission and I guided them on their way, warning their distrustful guide, Gollum, to behave. I let them go without ever once looking at the Hobbit who carried the Ring,” Boromir explained seriously, his tone grim.

“Wise decision,” Aragorn complimented.

Boromir shook his head and smiled kind of sadly. “No. Necessary for a man who would have been tempted.”

“You would have withstood it,” Aragorn protested.

“No. We both know I would not,” Boromir said softly with a shake of his head, stating a fact. Silence settled between them, neither knowing what to say until Aragorn broke the silence with more news. 

“I tended to your wounds before I left for the Black Gates yet you remained unconscious all till today. Faramir kept vigil at your bedside whenever princess Eowyn did not draw him away. He was very torn and in the end I had you two put in beds side by side in the House of Healing so he did not have to choose and placed a bed for him between you and Eowyn for he was injured as well and needed to rest yet his concern for her and you gave him little of that.”

“Is the princess healing well?” Boromir asked with concern, not wishing Faramir to get hurt and mourn a woman he obviously cared for.

  
”Eowyn’s injuries were painful but not deadly and this morning I moved her and you to the palace. She should be able to move about a little today while you, my friend, may wait a few weeks,” Aragorn told him, his tone firm but kind.

Boromir smiled, caught between pride, joy and a feeling of bittersweet sorrow. “Faramir has found a lady to care for.” He had grown up. He was no longer a child; had not been for a long time and Boromir could not help but wonder if there would still be a place for him in Faramir’s life now.

Aragorn nodded. “Yes, and a special one at that. Faramir was here earlier but left to go sit with her for a while.”

Boromir nodded, torn between feeling happy for his brother and feeling like he was losing him.

“That is good. I am happy for him,” Boromir said softly, his smile almost true.

“You will always be his brother and as such always be in his heart. There is no choice; he can have you both and I have told him as much for he had the same fear,” Aragorn said softly, insightfully.

“Thank you,” Boromir said warmly, feeling at ease now, his fears washed away in the light of Aragorn’s loving tone and warm touch.

“There is something I have to tell you,” Aragorn began seriously but the paused, not sure how to continue. “What is the last thing you remember of your father?”

Boromir frowned, trying to concentrate. “After I had sent Sam and the other Hobbit, Frodo, on their way, Orcs attacked a few days after. We were outnumbered and had to withdraw to the city with heavy losses. I reported our status to my father and told him we should prepare the city for a last stand and light the signal for Rohan, send out messengers to any and all countries we could reach, human and Elven alike. Anyone at all. Without an army of 100.000 men at least I knew we had no chance of saving Minas Tirith and if She fell Gondor would as well,” Boromir let him know, his eyes reflecting remembered distress.

“What happened then?” Aragorn asked softly, his eyes and voice filled with compassion.

“I have never seen father like that. He flew into a rage, said I was not Boromir, not his son, that I had failed him,” Boromir admitted, his voice pained. Denethor’s words had hurt worse than anything he had ever experienced and the powerful slap in the face Denethor had given him had seemed to burn his skin like acid, all Denethor’s pain and frustration going into that one hit.

“He was not himself,” Aragorn comforted, not sure what else to say. He had never liked the man but understood the bond of family.

“Suddenly he seemed to lose all hope…all power. He sank to the floor and mumbled that all hope had died with Boromir. I tried to tell him I was Boromir and the fire returned to his eyes. He said if I was truly Boromir I should prove it. I left him and began to arrange for our defence of Minas Tirith but knew it was hopeless. I wrote a note to Faramir,” Boromir went on as if he had not talked, his eyes far away as if reliving the whole episode again.

“He got it.”  
  


Boromir nodded. “Good. I am sad that it was first when I returned to Minas Tirith after Osgiliath’s fall that I realized Denethor had ordered all incoming massagers from other nations shot, fearing they were spies. My suggestion to send for help, therefore, did not go over well. Denethor had the tower we needed to signal Rohan destroyed and ordered the palace guard to stop all outgoing massagers and investigate their messages. I knew I could trust the rangers to get the message to Faramir when he crossed into Gondor,” Boromir explained.

“Faramir sent a Rohirrum with a message to you. He was shot down. Did you try to send massagers to Rohan for we received none,” Aragorn asked, seeing things here had happened almost exactly the way he had feared though he was relieved that Boromir had not fallen into shadow like his father had for that had been his greatest fear.

“Father grew more paranoid by the day. He had a guard assigned to follow me around to be sure I did not betray his orders. I tried to have a message to Rohan smuggled out but it was intercepted, the courier killed. My father summoned me and waved the letter I had written in my face, saying it was treason and proof I was not Boromir. I argued with him but to no use. By the end of it he ordered me to reclaim Osgiliath to prove I was who I said to be and I had no choice but to go,” Boromir told him, his voice soft and agonized as he recalled the ugly argument he had had with his father, all traces of warmth gone. He had never wished that to be the last memory, his last reminder, of his father.

“This is the last you remember?” Aragorn asked sympathetically.

“During the attack on Osgiliath I saw my men fall one by one, men I had sworn to defend and lead to the best of my abilities…I let them die,” Boromir whispered pained, guilt tearing at his heart and soul.

“Nay…your father did. You did what you had to,” Aragorn said softly.

“Still…I should have done more…fought harder. I knew father was slipping, I knew for I felt the same shadow try to claim me,” Boromir said softly.

“How did you escape it?”

Boromir looked him in the eyes and smiled warmly, “I read your letter and through your words I felt your love, your hope and I knew as long as you lived, as long as Faramir lived, there was still hope. Though my father claimed you both dead I would do neither until I saw your dead bodies with my very eyes…Then…then I would have believed…then I would pierce my heart with my own dagger and let shadow claim me for then I would have known…all was lost,” Boromir said, his emotions raw and real, shining in the depth of green eyes moist with unshed tears.

“All would not have been lost. You would have been here,” Aragorn whispered, heartfelt.

  
“By my brother’s and your love alone. I saw what future should have been mine,” he said softly, his tone warm and grateful.

  
“Nay…what could have been…never what should have been,” Aragorn said strongly, shaking his head as he took Boromir’s uninjured hand and held it close to his chest.

Boromir smiled warmly, enjoying the feeling of brotherhood. “Only in my brother’s eyes have I ever seen such love as what I see in yours.”

  
Aragorn smiled reassuringly as he releashed his hand and put it back on the covers. “Boromir, you were badly injured during the attack on Osgiliath but reached Minas Tirith. Your father…he thought you dead and had prepared a funeral pyre,” Aragorn explained as gently as he could.

Boromir simply nodded, his expression closed. “That explains the burns. I was wondering how I had gotten them.”

Aragorn looked at him, worried by his calm acceptance. “Your father died in the battle for Minas Tirith,” Aragorn said, trying to soften the blow. It was not a lie…but it was purposefully misleading.

“How did he truly die?” Boromir asked, no emotions in his voice and eyes as he looked at Aragorn, not even curiosity shining there. Aragorn wasn’t really surprised Boromir had known he was not telling everything; he had always been able to read him. He should have known Boromir would wish the truth, no matter how painful.

“He stood with the torch. I hit him with my dagger in his shoulder and he fell off the pyre. Faramir got you off the pyre and extinguished the fire burning in your clothes. Denethor seemed to come to himself and regretted what he had done, to both of you. He ran out of the burial hall and out over the cliff.”

“He killed himself,” Boromir concluded, showing no grief in his words.

“Yes.”

Silence fell between them before Aragorn had to ask, “Do you not mourn him?”

“I mourn what he once was, I mourn a man who was a great leader and who held this nation together. I mourned the death of my father the day Faramir left for that day I see now was the day that what was left of my father died as the One Ring was mentioned.” He paused before he softly added, “What died that night…was not my father.”

Aragorn nodded agreement. A lot of Denethor’s true strength and power had been twisted over the years, in the end so much so that there had been little left of the true Steward.

Silence fell again before Boromir softly said, “Sometimes at night…over the years as I felt him fade from me…I wondered…feared, that same madness should take my soul.” He paused before he added quietly, barely above a whisper, “Faramir was never much alike to him; always possessing our mother’s care, depth and grace. I have his strength…I have his weaknesses.”

Aragorn shook his head in strong denial. “That will never happen.”

“How do you know when I do not?” Boromir asked miserably though still assured by Aragorn’s certain tone.

“Because I will not let it happen,” Aragorn said strongly.

“If it should will you give me your oath that you will take my life before I become something I am not? Before I hurt Faramir, you or anyone else?” Boromir asked, fear in his voice. Aragorn had never seen Boromir afraid before but it was clear he was afraid now.

“You will not fall into shadow. I will chase the shadows away,” Aragorn promised, his words warm but soft, his eyes filled with compassion and warmth.

“Give me your oath, my friend, my King…I need to hear it,” Boromir plead and Aragorn nodded agreement, unable to deny him anything.

“You have my word yet I know this oath I need never fulfil.”

  
“Thank you,” Boromir said sincerely, peace coming over his soul as he had certainty he would not be allowed to fall into shadow should his own strength fail him.

Before they could speak more the door to Boromir’s chamber opened and Faramir appeared. He smiled at Aragorn but then his smile widened and his whole face lit up when he saw Boromir was awake.

“Brother!” he said happily and went to him, giving him an awkward one-armed embrace since he now had his right arm in a slide to help the shoulder wound heal, mindful of Boromir’s bandages as he touched him. He had washed and dressed light in a loose shirt and warm brown pants.

“Faramir. My heart is eased and glad to see you well,” Boromir said with a wide smile as Faramir seated himself at his bedside beside Aragorn.

“And I you. When you did not wake up I begun to worry,” Faramir admitted, relief and joy shining in his eyes.

“Faramir?” a soft female voice asked from the door and they all turned to see Eowyn standing in the doorway. Dressed in a beautiful white dress she looked stunning, her long hair tied at her neck. Her injury in her leg was covered by the dress and only the strain in her face, the pain in her eyes and the whiteness of her skin betrayed she was far from fully recovered.

“Eowyn!” Faramir jumped up and helped her to sit at Boromir’s bedside where he had just been sitting, standing in front of her. “You should not be up on your own. Aragorn said you could sit and read, mayhap walk a little escorted but no more than an hour or so a day,” he said worried.

“I just visited my brother. His injuries were minor and he is now starting to organize his return to Rohan,” she told him.

“Princess Eowyn, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Boromir said with a smile before Faramir could voice more concerns.

“Oh, sorry,” Faramir blushed, in his concern for her having forgotten proper protocol. “Eowyn, may I present my brother, Boromir, Steward of Gondor,” he introduced.

Boromir fought down the surprise at the title. Denethor was dead; naturally he had been named the new Steward. “Boromir, Eowyn, princess of Rohan,” Faramir went on, his gaze moving from his brother to Eowyn.

“The pleasure is mine,” Eowyn said and caught his uninjured hand and he brought her hand to his lips, kissing it softly.

“I apologize I cannot rise and greet you properly,” he said with some amusement as she withdrew her hand.

“I understand perfectly,” she smiled back before she added, “Faramir speaks highly of you.”

“He exaggerates,” Boromir said with a warm and teasing smile at his brother.

“I do not!” Faramir protested with faked shock but then smiled. “Mayhap a little,” he admitted with a grin.

Boromir gave them both a warm look before he said, “You made a fine choice…both of you,” his eyes settled on her briefly before they returned to Faramir, “If you seek my blessing then you have it,” he added softly, happy to see Faramir this relaxed, his eyes filled with warmth and love. If Eowyn gave him this he would have approved her even if she had been a kitchen maid.

“Thank you,” Faramir said warmly, heartfelt and took Boromir’s uninjured hand and kissed it like a lord would his sire. “By your leave,” he said formally, his eyes shifting between the two men, not sure whom to ask, the man about to be crowned King or the man officially in charge of Gondor.

“You may leave. I will see you later,” Boromir said as he with a look at Aragorn saw he would remain silent.

Faramir smiled at them both before he helped Eowyn up, out the door and back towards her room, voicing concerns for her health all the way down the corridor that she countered with warm amusement.

“Did he talk of a day for the wedding with you?” Boromir asked Aragorn as soon as the young couple had disappeared and the door had fallen softly shut behind them.

“He spoke of the coming summer. Eowyn wishes to return to Rohan with her brother when he leaves in a few days. Eomer is now King of Rohan and there is much he needs to do. Legolas will return with him and Elrond will bring Arwen here to stay some time before my coronation which Eomer of course will also attend.”

“Arwen? The Rivendell princess?” Boromir asked, remembering what Aragorn had told him during the few days they had had before Aragorn had left with Faramir for Rivendell. He hadn’t had time to tell him much about his life in Rivendell but Boromir had been relieved to know he had lived well and been happy. Legolas had obviously become an important part of his life as had Arwen.

“Yes.”

“Come next summer Faramir will also be of age to marry,” Boromir said almost to himself. “We could have the wedding here at the palace and invite dignitaries from far and wide…” Boromir began but then stopped himself, remembering by then he would no longer be a part of the ruling family of Gondor. “I mean…with your leave, of course, Majesty.”

“Please, do not do that,” Aragorn plead, wincing at those formal and distant forming words. “I will take the crown in a few weeks, when you are healed enough to attend together with Eowyn, Eomer, Legolas, Arwen by my side, Elrond and everyone else who have helped this victory come to pass.” Aragorn paused. “You and your brother will always be kin to me. I wish you to remain as Steward of Gondor, second only to me and I wish to name Faramir prince of Ithilien as reward for all he has done. This victory would not have been possible without him.”

“He will like that,” Boromir said with a nod and a smile, beginning to feel sleep trying to claim him again as exhaustion sat in, reminding him he was far from healed and he let his head fall back to the pillow.

“When you are better I will tell you just how much he did. He organized a defence of Edoras with Eowyn’s help, having seen where Saruman would attack in a vision.”

“Saruman was with Sauron?” Boromir asked surprised, the shock forcing his exhaustion back for a little while longer. “I would never have guessed it. I thought him a friend of Gandalf.” He frowned. “Gandalf **is** still on our side, right?”

“Yes,” Aragorn calmed him with a smile and Boromir smiled back.

“Just making sure. Power corruption could have turned out to be a Wizard thing,” he teased and Aragorn smiled.

They sat in silence for a while before Aragorn spoke again, knowing he had to say this now before he let things go too far.

“Boromir, I wish to confess something to you, something important.”

Boromir nodded, a guarded look in his eyes at Aragorn’s serious tone and the nervous look in his eyes. “Go on.”

“Boromir,” he began seriously, suddenly very nervous. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. What if Boromir ended up hating him? Or disgusted by him? No. He had to do this. Boromir had a right to know before everyone else found out. “I love Arwen. I wish to marry her. No, I will marry her and make her Queen,” he said softly but seriously, his voice strong, feeling like a burden had been lifted from his heart at finally admitting to it.

Boromir smiled relieved. “Was that all you wished to say? I had feared you had hidden an injury from me and was deadly ill,” Boromir said in relief, reproof in his eyes.

Aragorn frowned and looked surprised at him. “I am not sure you understand. I love you her, an Elf. An Elf to rule a human Kingdom with me.” He paused, not sure how direct to be but not wishing to be happy over a misunderstanding which would later pain his heart. His eyes found a spot on the floor next to Boromir’s bed as he lowered his head, unable to meet Boromir’s gaze, afraid of what he would see there.

“Aragorn,” Boromir said softly and Aragorn looked at him, relieved to see wamrth there. “I do not mind,” he said, amplifying each word.

“I feared you would have scorn me,” Aragorn admitted as he smiled in joy and wonder at Boromir. In this moment nothing mattered but this feeling of relief, acceptance and love.

Boromir smiled happily but then explained, “I would have,” he admitted truthfully. “Had I not seen the vision of what my life could have been like, how I would have died….” He paused and then said softly, “In that future…you tried to protect me even there. Though in my vision I had met you only recently I knew that you were destined to be my captain, my brother and my King. My dying moment you sat with me and I regretted so much…most of all that I had never tried to ease your burdens then but I will do so now.”

“Then I owe your gift of visions a great deal,” Aragorn said warmly.

“Visions and this War and my almost dying,” Boromir said with humour in his voice. “It all made me realise how fragile we are…how easily we break, fall, disappoint, bleed and die. My father expected perfection from me…Yet I realize now I am but human and humans make mistakes. I will do my best and that will have to be enough. Through the years, up till the day I sent Faramir with you, the only times I ever did what I felt was right instead of listening to what others wished of me was when I defended Faramir or you.” He took a deep breath before he went on, “Blindly following orders is not courage. Not doing what feels right, not helping those who suffers…not loving while there is time…that is cowardice…not strength.” Boromir smiled warmly at him. “If I had a love I would rather fight to keep that love for five years than live a hundred and never having felt the love I can hear is growing between you and Arwen.”

Tears glimmered in Aragorn’s eyes and he let them fall. Tears of joy and relief and he smiled happily. “Thank you, brother,” he whispered, drawing close to Boromir, their foreheads touching.

“You are welcome,” Boromir whispered. “I will sleep now,” Boromir added softly.

“I will watch over you, now and forever,” Aragorn vowed and arranged himself so he could sit more comfortably.

“I have always wished to ask you…what did you write in the letter you gave me all those years ago, the letter I never opened?” Boromir asked into the comfortable stillness, feeling himself drift towards sleep, his voice slightly muffled.

“I wrote: ‘I will be your brother; always’,” Aragorn said softly, knowing the message he had written by heart.

“That was your message?” Boromir asked surprised and pleased. “Just this?”

“Yes.” Aragorn nodded.

“I am saddened now I never opened it. It would have pleased me to hear such a message,” Boromir said sadly, regretfully.

“Maybe it was best you did not. Some things are better realized when lived than when written,” Aragorn said softly and Boromir nodded, considering this and knowing it was true.

“My thanks regardless,” he said softly and his green eyes shined with happiness.

“I am happy to finally see you at peace,” Aragorn said warmly.

“It is thanks to my brothers,” Boromir simply said and Aragorn was speechless.

“Thank you,” he said moved and Boromir smiled. Boromir fell asleep with Aragorn watching over him.


	29. Coronation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn is crowned King

## Coronation

It was a perfect day; a beautiful day. The city of Minas Tirith seemed as if changed. Gone were the battle-tired city, the pain and the blood. In its stead stood a glorious city of light and beauty, sparkling in the evening sun.

The ceremony for Aragorn’s coronation had been simple but heartfelt. It was the end of an era and the beginning of a new one when Boromir officially handled office over to Aragorn, smiling warmly at him as he bowed before him. Boromir was dressed in all white robes lined with gold, a white cape with fur over his shoulders, held in place by two large silver pins. Aragorn himself had been dressed in dark royal robes, a beautiful cape over his shoulders, a crown of silver placed there by Gandalf now glittering on his head.

Boromir and Aragorn had talked about when and how to break the news to the world about Gondor getting an Elven Queen and this hadn’t been an easy decision. Boromir had only feared Faramir’s reaction and he had happily accepted the union. After that Boromir had only pride to offer for Aragorn’s love and was ready to force this through on his brother and King’s behalf but Aragorn knew he needed to be cautious. Yet he knew his love for Arwen to be true and wished the world to know this as well; most of all he wanted Arwen to take her rightful place at his side. Still, Boromir who had grown up in Minas Tirith and had never seen the glory of Rivendell as Aragorn had knew well why Aragorn hesitated. As the evening of Aragorn’s coronation moved on he remained standing at Aragorn’s chair on the small heightened podium made for Aragorn in the large room in the palace, ready for anything. Arwen sat on the Queen’s chair beside Aragorn’s, looking insecure and nervous. The guests were casting her curious looks because Aragorn had yet not officially introduced her. The plan was to do so tonight but already Aragorn could see some resentment and hostility aimed Arwen and his way and he was hesitant; was it really fair to put his love through this? On occasion Boromir’s fingers would squeeze Aragorn’s shoulder reassuringly as he eyed the festivities, his eyes on the guests, and this small gesture gave Aragorn support; his Steward was behind him.

When Aragorn moved through the room to greet his guests, Arwen by his side, Boromir followed yet remained at a distance the way a trusted second should and Aragorn began to feel his crown weighting him down. The smiles of the nobles and priests seemed false and deceiving. Only his friends from the War did he believe in and he made sure to give the brave Hobbits the respect they were due. He knelt before them and Arwen and Boromir quickly copied him and after that the whole court followed, making the Hobbits stand there in embarrassment and wonder.

The evening had gone by quickly and Aragorn was back at his throne, Arwen by his side, Boromir standing beside his chair to his right. Aragorn was sure that if he felt lonesome and isolated Arwen had to feel even more so.

“This is ridiculous,” Aragorn mumbled, a determined look on his face as he rose from his throne. The movement made the room focus on him but Aragorn ignored them and turned to look at Arwen, his gaze softening at once.

“Something amiss, my love?” Arwen asked softly, and out of the corner of his eye Aragorn notished that Boromir’s hand was resting on his sword, ready to defend his King if need be as he came to stand right before Aragorn, shielding Arwen and him from the crowd.

“Yes. I have not kissed you for several hours,” Aragorn said with a smile and Arwen’s face softened, forgetting where they were. Without another word Aragorn pulled Arwen to her feet and captured her’s face in his hands and drew her into a kiss. Boromir stepped back so the crowd could see the kiss just as Arwen willingly drew closer and the chaste kiss deepened as she threw her arms around her King and lover, melting their bodies together. 

“I think we have an audience,” Arwen whispered, not really caring as the kiss ended and they drew apart.

Aragorn smiled warmly at her and briefly eyed the room, seeing shock, disgust, resentment and even hate on many a face. While their friends who already knew and the Elves present smiled happily few humans seemed so inclined. Hopefully that would change once they got over the initial shock. Aragorn turned to address the room, holding Arwen’s right hand in his, Boromir standing battle-ready at his side. “Hear me now. I have decided to make princess Arwen of Rivendell my bride,” he declared and raised Arwen and his folded hands into the air. “Arwen are to be my Queen, my consort, and I expect her to be treated and respected as such,” the latter was followed by a warning look and an undercurrent of warning.

“What about heirs, my King? Shall this become an Elven Kingdom now?” One nobleman felt bold enough to ask.

“I shall have heirs and they will be Gondorians. This union will bring two great nations closer together,” Aragorn declared with a dismissive hand gesture on his free hand, bringing Arwen’s and his intertwined hands down again. Aragorn was tense and Boromir was ready to defend his kind, his hand on his sword, when suddenly the room exploded in applause. Aragorn caught Boromi’s eyes who smiled and shrugged as if to say ‘what do you know?’. Aragorn then turned back to face his future bride and smiled widely, feeling happier and more relieved than he ever had before.

“My liege, I must admit even I doubted your kingship’s strength. I see now how mistaken I was. They love you even more for this move than before I think,” Boromir said but the warmth in his eyes and the defensive pose of his body remained strong and almost possessive in his desire to protect his King in all things – also in his love.

“I too had doubts but my faith in my people was always strong,” Aragorn replied. His features then softened as he turned from Boromir to Arwen. “Let us not waste more time on politics tonight, my love. Come and sit by me,” he asked and lead her to the golden chair besides his own on the podium where she had been seated. Arwen seated herself with a smile.

“Whatever we went through to reach this point…thank you for what you did for me, for us, throughout the years and here tonight,” Arwen said softly and Aragorn smiled warmly and knelt by her chair, kissing her hand tenderly.

“Lye inye melme,” Aragorn said tenderly as he leant up and claimed Arwen’s lips in a loving kiss. When he drew back Arwen was smiling and so was Boromir; this was one Elfish sentence he had already learnt the meaning of since Arwen and Aragorn had said it so often since the War had ended. Seeing both Faramir and Aragorn happy had given Boromir a sense of peace he had never known before.

“And I love you,” Arwen replied warmly and as Aragorn retook his seat at Arwen’s side their hands remained intertwined as they gazed out over the gathered guests. They had a strong grip on each other and whatever happened then they would face it together and that thought made them smile.


	30. Of Love And Brotherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years have passed. Boromir and Arwen share a moment and Boromir reflect on his life.

## Of Love And Brotherhood

“My lady,” Boromir said politely as he came upon Arwen sitting in the sunlight garden in the palace in Minas Tirith. She was dressed in a long and elegant red dress which did her Elven soft beauty ever justice.

Arwen put the book she had been reading aside and indicated the empty spot on the stone bench she was sitting on. “Boromir, sit with me for a while.”

“I would but I need to see the King.”

“Aragorn is in a closed meeting with some of his ministers.”

“In that case…” With a nod of his head he did as bid. Though sitting relaxed he still had one hand on his sword just in case. “I saw your son further back in the garden…he was chasing a butterfly with great concentration,” Boromir told her, talking fondly of her and Aragorn’s only son who had just turned five.

Arwen smiled warmly. She had been married to Aragorn for almost twelve years now and she would not trade a moment of those years for anything. “Tell me what news you bring, brother of my husband,” she requested, using the honour title of brother Aragorn himself had given his second in command and the last Steward of Gondor.

“I have just now returned from visiting my brother’s place. Eowyn and him sends their love to Aragorn and you. Their children are doing well and my brother said he would journey here in a month’s time to attend the council meeting our liege has called concerning the protection of the borders,” Boromir told her, unconsciously shifting as easily between speaking of Aragorn as a brother than as a king.

She nodded. She had always admired him for being able to balance brotherhood and military discipline as easily as he seemed to do. “Your eyes are clouded. What are you holding back?” Boromir was not as emotional as his brother but his emotions was still rarely hidden.

“My queen, it is nothing you need to concern yourself with,” Boromir insisted.

She smiled softly and briefly squeezed his hand. “A concern of yours is a concern of mine for I know it will concern my husband dearly. Do tell me.”

“My patrol was attacked on the way back from my brother’s home. Remedies of Sauron’s army these Orcs are growing bolder. Hence the importance of the meeting the King has called,” Boromir admitted.

She gave him a shocked look and looked at him more closely. First now did she notice that his fancy clothes seemed dirty and in places torn and she recalled he had walked unevenly as if spearing one of his legs the burden of his full weight. “Are you unhurt?”

“I was not permanently injured but I lost three men and had four severely wounded. They are at the House of Healing now,” Boromir said grimly, self discrimination clear in his voice.

“I am sure you did all you could. Are you sure you should not be in the House of Healing yourself? You know if you’re concealing an injury Aragorn will merely order you there,” Arwen said with concern.

“Mi’lady, I’m fine,” Boromir assured her, sending her a smile to add to the words. He grew grimmer when he spoke again, “yet Aragorn must convince the Council to take action against these new attacks. War weary we may be but we won’t take any attack lying down!”

“He will convince them,” she assured him. They sat in comfortable silence, born from years of trust and a love which had grown to become as strong and close as if they were truly brother and sister. She knew he would die or kill for her and he knew she would always speak his case.

“We captured one of the Orcs and my men are working on him now in the dungeons,” Boromir said, his eyes looking into the beauty of the flower filled garden. “All intell we get – and we will get it – will be brought to the King.”

“You know Aragorn doesn’t condone torture…of any kind,” she warned. “Neither do I.” She had however learned it was best not to ask questions she didn’t want the answer to.

He gave her a dark grim. “This is why you all have me – so you do not need to know about these things.”

“Boromir,” she warned.

“Don’t worry, mi’lady. We may rough the Orc up a bit but we are not monsters. We will, however, execute him for the death of the men in my patrol he killed,” he said darkly.

She merely nodded, accepting his words but not commenting on them. “I will tell my husband to speak with you as soon as he returns if you do not get hold of him first;” she promised.

“Thank you,” he said and smiled at her.

She smiled before she said, “Now…do tell me more about how the children of s Faramir and the princess Eowyn fare? Have they torn down the palace yet as she told me she feared?”

Boromir smile became soft and his eyes grew loving and soft as well when he started to speak of his beloved brother and his family. Through the years the darkness that had threatened his soul had faded away and a year ago he had been able to open his heart to a love of his own. A beautiful and strong fair-haired Elven warrior from the Golden Wood had stolen his heart and Boromir had never been happier. His country was despite a few clashes safe, his young brother was well and happy, his King was doing well and he had a wonderful lover of his own. Had anyone told him all this would one day be his he would not have believed it. Now, as each day passed darkness faded further and further away and though life was not perfect it was as close to it as Boromir felt it could come. 


	31. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story comes to an end....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my editor, my artists and Jenn Miller for kind encouragement. You have made this story great! *blows kisses*  
> Thanks to anyone who reads this; you’ve made it all worth it.  
> Please note that you’re reading the gen version of this novel. The slash version is my personal favourite and comes with these pairings: A/B and F/E. About who Boromir’s lover was...I know whom I had in mind but I’ll leave it up to you to decide. ;)  
> If you liked this story you might enjoy my other zine novels. They include a really long gen LOTR/X-men crossover titled “Fellowship Of Heroes” [you can read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22828753] which many have told me is my best fan novel yet. The novel is filled with h/c, action, adventure, angst, romance, humour, drama and anything else you might wish.
> 
> Again thanks so much for reading and please leave kudos and feedback. :)

## Epilogue

Aragorn ruled as King of Gondor for many years and the land prospered. Alliances were formed to Rohan and to the Elven Kingdoms. Gondor’s defences and army became one of the best in Middle Earth and Minas Tirith became known for housing such fine guests as Gandalf, the four Hobbits who had helped destroy the One Ring, Lord Elrond of Rivendell, Legolas of Mirkwood, Faramir of Ithilien and his wife, Eowyn, Eomer of Rohan, Haldir of the Golden Wood and many others. And of course there was Boromir, Steward of Gondor, who stayed with the royal couple at the palace in Minas Tirith when he was not at his other home in the Golden Wood with his Elven lover.

Through the years the love between Arwen and Aragorn never faded, merely grew, as did the love between the three brothers. The hardships they went through, the battles they fought…nothing managed to break them.

To Aragorn’s great sorrow Boromir died before him, dieing in battle as he had always wanted. Though he never had children the bond between him and his lover was so strong it was merely a fade regret. The loneliness of the earlier years had been forgotten in the face of such love. Sadly such great love came with an equally high price. Boromir’s lover was devastated by the mortal’s death and withered away; Aragorn honoured the couple’s last request to be buried in the tomb of Stewards, now once again called the tombs of Kings, in one casket so none of them would face eternity alone.

Aragorn felt when his own time was coming, having felt alone without one of his brothers. When a fever illness took his body he wasn’t able to fight it. He prepared his son to take over as King of Gondor and spent as much time as possible with his Queen and Faramir. The night Aragorn knew would be his last, Aragorn walked out on the balcony of the bedroom he had shared with his Queen and as he gazed upon the stars his eyes froze with an eager look echoing in them, awaiting in death to once again see the brother he had missed for years.

Though she had known she would lose her lover so early, seen from an Elven point of view even Aragorn’s longer than normal mortal life span was short, then Aragorn’s fall to illness had shattered her with its abruptness. Elrond fought to keep her spirits up but nothing could comfort Arwen. Saddened Elrond made sure she sailed to the Undying Lands and made sure his foster son’s last order was carried out, that Aragorn was buried in the tomb of Kings, beside Boromir. Elrond had the lid of the graves in stone show the King wearing his crown, his hands crossed over his chest, holding his sword. Boromir was shown in his Steward robes, the sceptre of the Steward in one hand, the other holding his lover’s hand who was also shown in stone as wearing fine clothes. Boromir’s clothes had the King’s symbol on the heart, a symbol that he had helped ease Aragorn’s burden of Kingship all through his life. 

The most frequent visitor to the grave of the King and the last Steward of Gondor was Faramir. He would look at Boromir’s lively statue in the palace and spent hours sitting by his grave, softly talking to him. Only Eowyn kept him in this world and when she died he faded away and was buried by her side shortly thereafter.

Legolas would visit the graves of his friends many times, deeply saddened by the death of his bond brother yet he had always known this was the fate of all mortals. Elrond would visit as well but as time passed the human Kingdoms began to forget the alliance and the promise of peace they had given the Elves. They began to forget the Elves were more than a nursery tale.

Human kingdoms fell to ruin, castles crumbled and Aragorn’s dream of unity and peace was destroyed by the very people he had fought to save. The sorrow of seeing his foster son’s vision die, killed by his own people, had Elrond leave Middle Earth and as the humans continued to forget, continued to wage war, more and more Elves left.

Legolas was the last Elf to leave. Before he left he went to the grave of the man who had once been King of a kingdom that now no longer existed and his Steward who had fought so hard against an enemy, Mordor, which now, luckily, did not exist any longer either. The lone Elf had known for some time he was the last remains of a dying time, a dying race and a lost era but Legolas had not been able to go, always fascinated by mortal life. When he saw that all there was left of the once great city of Kings were ruins being eaten up by the forest he had almost regretted coming to see his bond brother one last time. Yet then he had noticed a spot where some ruins lay and they had walked there. Among trees and flowers, deer and sunshine…the graves of Aragorn and Boromir remained, hidden by leaves, protected by a few pieces of broken down walls. They could see the stars now and that had pleased Legolas. Aragorn had always loved the stars. Legolas had softly kissed Aragorn’s forehead on the stone engraved with Aragorn’s image on his coffin and with one last look at his mortal bond brother, he had left and thus the last Elf had left Middle Earth.

Time passed, names changed, people changed and much knowledge that should have been preserved were lost. Myth became legend until only a fairytale remained of what had happened so long ago, in a distant kingdom. It was said then that no love ever had been or ever would be as strong as the love between a King, his Steward and his advisor, three men who through shared hardship, sorrow and joy had become brothers in everything but blood. Some say they can see them in the stars, the King with his Queen by his side, the Steward with his younger brother who had always been so dear to his heart beside him. Reaching out across the heavens the brothers were never alone and their images would seem to melt into one the second the moon kisses the earth goodnight.

Yet…that is but a fairytale.

**_The End_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback and/or kudos means a lot to me so if you are enjoying this novel please do let me know. :)


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